think one of the reasons I think I have a nice ass
is that I can't look at it directly. I mean, I have
a repugnant face,and I see it all the time; my room
has an astonishing four (4 )mirrors in it! I was working
for Isaac Mizrahi a while back and there were mirrors
on every wall. I almost vomited from constant exposure
to my deformed mug. But I digress. Actually, no, I
don't; this isn't going to be about my ass at all
(please, hold back your gales of disappointment) but
rather about my face. My horrible, horrible face.
start from the top, with hair. I have been blessed
with a full head, and my maternal grandfather is thankfully
hirsute, putting to rest any genetic fears of baldness.
But! the locks atop my cranium are a hideous mockery
of real hair: if I wash them, they're dry, frizzy
and unmanageable; and if I don't, they become greasy,
dandruffy and foul to the nose. Either way I look
like a moron. And I look stupid in hats (but who doesn't?)
down, past my sloping, monolithic forehead, peppered
by nascent volcanoes of acne and furrowed by premature
age-lines, you come to my eyebrows, which are constantly
losing hair all over whatever I am working on. Actually,
all my body hair falls out on a regular basis, making
it look like my habitat is some kind of ape house
or something. "Luckily," I have a lot of it.
on, we come to my eyes; sunken, bleary and unfocused.
So many blood vessels have blown in the whites that
my mom used to think I was smoking pot all the time;
I always look like I've been awake for a week and
a half drinking animal beer and popping Librium. The
deep, grey bags beneath them that no amount of sleep
can erase only add to the illusion.
located smack-dab between those two cracked windows
to my soul lies the crowning glory of my visage: the
Jensen Nose. Immense, red, perpetually dripping with
the snot of 100 colds, the proboscis draws all eyes
to it when I enter a room. And when I sneeze, I nearly
pass out. And lucky me when a pimple decides to make
an appearance on the tip, extending the length even
more. I wish I could afford surgery, but I wouldn't
know where to start.
face is a foolish experiment in ineffective juxtaposition;
the sunken eyes and hawklike nose would be effective
in a sort of tormented Edgar Allan Poe way if they
weren't placed above my ridiculous, ruddy Little Dutch
Boy cheeks. I look like Ziggy gone horribly, horribly
wrong(er) with these foolish apple-cheeks, so easily
pinchable that you can gather the flesh of one firmly
in a hand and shake so you'd think it would tear right
off, like soft, sweet cookie dough instead of the
greasy, cancerous flesh it is.
and my teeth! My teeth! The top row are quite frankly
astonishingly straight (unfortunately urine-yellow)
without any orthodontic finagling, but the bottom
look like a demolished stone fence, battered into
chips and crags by burly Irishmen with hammers. And
three of my molars have disgusting fillings that refuse
to pick up radio signals. Plus, my wisdom teeth are
slowly growing in, deforming my jawline even further.
And of course, my chapped, red, often bleeding lips,
breath that even dogs hate, sunken chin, protuberant
Adam's apple, pubic-looking facial hair, jug-handle
ears, of course we can't forget the mole on my cheek
that occasionally sends out a feeler of hair to the
outside world and that's probably some kind of face
cancer, and overall grotesque complexion round out
the neck (bear with me, I'm nearly done...) it's not
so hot either: sunken chest, bloated Biafran stomach,
spindly arms, enormous hands and feet (especially
feet, I'm 5'9" and wear an 11 1/2 shoe, which makes
me look like a goddamned circus clown), kneecaps that
look like the heads of two badly deformed fetuses,
non-Gaussian distribution of body hair, and overall
degeneration round out the package.
I didn't even mention my tiny, tiny penis.