This Gross Thing on My Face
posted in Doin' Our Thang |
Baby, the reason I haven’t called you is because I have this ugly looking thing on my face near my eye. It’s nasty. At first I thought it was just a zit. Nothing to worry about. Something I could wait out until it grew a pearly little head and I could pop it, ejaculating its evil contents onto my bathroom mirror.
But now this thing has been on my face for three weeks. Lodged between my nose and my eye like a bee bee. It’s hard, and red, and sore and it just keeps getting bigger. I can’t let you see me like this. I’m hideous. I’m Quasimodo. I’m Sludge from Goonies. I’m Gary Busey.
Maybe we can hang out next week when the results of the biopsy come back and my dermatologist assures me that it’s not contagious.
The doctor also quipped that it probably wasn’t the best idea that I tried get rid of the irregular protrusion myself by poking it with an Exacto-Knife. I couldn’t help it. I wanted to see you so bad, baby. You gotta believe me.
He said it was infected now because of the knife and is still potentially contagious. I said, “look Doc, you don’t know my lady though. If she sees me with this growth on my head she’s going to drop me like a hot casserole dish you absent-mindedly picked up with your bare hands.” He tried to tell me that, “I was overreacting,” and that “if this young lady truly cares about you then she won’t mind you having a minor blemish on your face.” I almost bitch-slapped that quack and sued him for malpractice, because he don’t know you.
He could not possibly comprehend the high standards of beauty and perfection that you hold. That you take every sight of ugliness as a personal offense, but that you do not do this out of snobbery. You do it out of a love for pure beauty, for your endless quest to be surrounded by true beauty. For you know that only when all instances of repugnance have been removed from your life will you achieve enlightenment. Baby, you blew my mind when you first told me that. Remember? I was crying like an old black woman at a funeral. Just in hysterics. I had to be escorted out of Jay-Z’s 40/40 Club by two bouncers because I lost the power to walk, remember? And I had to two-way you from outside the club after I came to.
And this why I haven’t called you, baby. It’s not that I’ve lost interest in you or that you’re a hypocrite or that you have a bad attitude or that you have an ugly laugh or that you think you’re better than everybody else or if we’re not at your favorite place you have to be a stick-in-the-mud or that you have bad taste in music or that you say you hate mushrooms even though you haven’t tried one since you were three or that you refuse to watch black and white movies or movies with subtitles or that you accused me of giving you an STD without even actually getting tested to see if indeed you did have an STD or that when we’re out on a date you spend half the time on the phone. No, it’s just that I have this gross thing on my face.
