Born This Way

I have never been the kind of girl to pine after children of my own. I remember, as a kindergartener, straddling myself with the immense responsibility of piling all of my stuffed animals onto the couch and taking us all for a drive to grandma’s house. We had to pull over 12 times in 20 minutes for me to spank naughty stuffed animals who did not obey mommy.

It was then that I realized actual human children are kind of a pain in the butt and that I couldn’t be trusted to raise any of them.

I guess it’s a good thing that I couldn’t handle the responsibility of parenthood, because at 28 years old, my ovaries and fallopian tubes and all the other reproductive organs are slowly atrophying after years of warming the bench. One day my doctor is going to just laugh and say, “Hey, why don’t we just take all of that stuff out? You aren’t using any of it, right?”

Right.

So about two years ago I replaced the supposedly irreplaceable love of a child with the best love of all—the love of an adorable dog.

Dodger is a cutie

I can’t say it’s always been easy. Dodger’s primary love language is eating my dirty socks and undewear, and his secondary love language is hacking those things up in the middle of the night later that week. But, overall, it’s a lot less pressure than an actual human child. It’s not illegal to feed Dodger once a day and then leave him by himself for 9 hours while I go to work.

I’ve always referred to myself as his “Mommy” and have always called him my “Baby,” because it’s cheeky and cute and makes me feel like there’s a reason for me to be alive other than the eight hours a day I spend telling people that where the “Home” key is on their phones. (It looks like a house…the house…it looks like a square with a triangle on top…it’s a square with a pointy top…on the bottom of the phone….yes…press that….OK, try again…not the curvy arrow button…the square with the pointy top…)

But lately, I’ve noticed something…strange. Perhaps it is the ticking of the biological alarm clock, or maybe it’s the innate need in all of us to want to pass on our worst character traits to another thing on this planet, but I am crossing from “loving dog owner who takes a lot of photos of her dog” to “one step away from being a crazy dog lady featured on a TLC special.”

I’ve always made Dodger “sit” for treats, because, frankly, that’s the only time he ever “sits” for me. But lately, I’ve been going the additional mile in asking him to say “Please.” (He never does, but I give him the treat anyway, because I spoil him so.) And then I scold him for not saying “Thank You” and remind him that I work hard for his treats, and that maybe if he’s going to be so ungrateful, he can go look for a job and make some money of his own.

Or, if we’re watching TV, I’ll explain the plot to Dodger so he can keep up and enjoy the show with me. We were watching Law and Order: SVU on Sunday, which some people might not think is appropriate for a young dog, but I’ll remind you that he’s three years old, and he hasn’t had any nightmares since I’ve started letting him watch it. Anyway, we were watching Law and Order: SVU, and I was telling Dodger that the killer was actually the mother, because she shook her kid two days ago, which caused a traumatic brain injury, but the injury didn’t kill the child until two days later at the park. And Dodger didn’t believe me until he saw it for himself, and then it all made sense to him.

Or when we are sitting down on the couch together while I read a book, I’ll begin reading out loud in my “Dodger” voice—the voice I use to talk to Dodger is the same one I use to talk to babies, by the way. I will even expound on the life lessons of the book when appropriate, since every moment is a teaching moment at The Craig Homeschool for Wayward Doggies. The Golden Rule, Jesus’ teachings on divorce, knowing your rights when dealing with the police, Dear Abby’s opinion about substituting Facebook messages for actual thank you letters*–we have read and discussed them all. It all seems like it goes in one ear and out the other, but I’m hopeful he gets something out of our conversations, you know?

Here’s the problem: I am afraid I am going to wake up one morning to the incessant buzzing of the biological clock, and I won’t be able to hit the Snooze button.

I am afraid that one day it won’t be enough to feed a dog and care for a sick dog and cuddle with a cute dog and homeschool a hyperactive dog. I’m afraid that dog ownership is just the gateway drug, and that one day I will wake up and want an actual human being.

I don’t remember a time in my life when I’ve wanted one of those—a human being—but I’m afraid I will want one, but I won’t be able to have one.

I will be too single, too old, too selfish, too unable to throw a semblance of an adult life together in order to make way for a human being. A dog? Yeah, I can handle a dog. He stays by himself 9 hours a day while I’m at work. I bribe him with treats to leave me alone while blogging. I can have him when I’m single and old and still maintain all of my selfishness and still not worry about how he will survive when the only thing in my kitchen is Coca Cola, Easy Mac and Reese’s Peanut Butter cups.

I can’t feed a human baby Reese’s cups for dinner or drop him off at the kennel for the weekend or spend less money on him per month than I do on my cable internet bill. Babies don’t know commands and can’t feed themselves from a bowl of kibble and can’t be housebroken. Babies could be harmed by plastic bags or burning candles or pen caps, and my apartment abounds with all of those things.

But I’m afraid I will still want one, even though I will not be able to have one or should not have one or don’t really even want one except for the first ten minutes of having one. And then I’ll either have one and regret it or not have one and become a crazy dog lady.

Dodger: Hey, mom. Whatcha doin’?
Me: Hey, baby! I’m just blogging about you and the maternal instinct that drives me to talk to you and “teach” you things even though you are a dog incapable of comprehending anything I’m saying. It’s kind of complicated.
Dodger: Are you almost done? There’s a TLC show on about a lady lives alone in a condemned house with bunch of doggies. She’s afraid of other people and hasn’t left her home since 1993! I want you to watch it with me!
Me: That sounds like fun.
Dodger: I love you.
Me: I love you, too.

Have you ever had a moment in your life where you were making a mad dash toward first base in an epic game of kickball after kicking with a bunch of middle- and high-schoolers who now know you are out of shape and kick like a girl, and you started to wonder to yourself, “Hey, wait a second, how did I get here anyway?!?”

You haven’t?

Well, then, maybe you should. Youth are my new favorite people, ahead of babies, young children who are not babies, and adults.

I say this as someone who has been volunteering over the last few months to hang out with any of the middle- and high-schoolers who walk into my church, even though I, quite frankly, should not be trusted to mold Play Dough, let alone human lives. I just try not to think of the long-term damage I’m doing, because they are fun, and I figure they’re pretty sturdy at this age, right?

Before you rush to update your resume, let me give you the job description, because it’s more than just kickball and lollipops, my friend: It’s 10 percent teaching stuff from the Bible*, 10 percent making stern-looking faces and hoping that you don’t have to go beyond that, because you’re kinda lazy and don’t want to have to actually go beyond the face-making stage of discipline, and 80 percent trying not to feel old and decrepit while being with young people who are infinitely cooler than you just by virtue of being born in the mid-90s. (It’s a lot of effort to not freak out about your impending mortality when a conversation with a 12-year-old about digital music leads to the question, “What’s Napster?”)

Sound like the kind of ministry opportunity you’ve been praying for? Maybe not specifically in those terms, but maybe-kinda-sorta-if-you-squint-your-eyes-and-tilt-your-head? Well, stay tuned, because this (and more!) could be yours!

I am gonna be 93 percent honest here: The very swanky youth volunteer position I hold may be up for grabs soon. It’s a miracle I’ve made it this long. I’m expecting a four-month chip in the mail any day now.

I could be paralyzed from the nose down from a serious kickball tragedy sustained while sliding into first base. Or I could yell out a string of curse words with a car full of youngins in earshot because SOMEBODY PULLED OUT IN FRONT OF ME WHAT THE #(&%#@$*(&#($!!!!! GAH!!!!!!

Other possibilities:

1. I’m going to accidentally teach something so unbiblical that it will lead all the youth astray, and eventually people will find out I’Mthe reason all of the youth believe that the only way to heaven is if we all call the tune and follow the piper who will lead us to the lady who is buying the stairway to heaven that lies in the whispering wind, and if you listen real hard, the tune will come to you at last. (Oh, it makes me wonder.)At the very least, someone is going to realize that the life lessons I’ve been teaching from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount (“Babies are not our enemies.” “Don’t drink yesterday’s milk, ’cause it’s spoiled.” “We can’t have gold streets on earth, because it’s not practical to drive on.”), while not inaccurate, are perhaps a slight deviation from the author’s original intent and focus, which, I imagine, would be Jesus and God. And stuff.

2. I’m going to accidentally leave one or two of ‘em at a gas station in Arkansas. (Whatever. I bet it happens to the Duggars all the time.) Do you all REALLY have to get out and pee? Are you sure you can’t hold it for another five hours?EVERYONE HOLD HANDS WHILE WE CROSS THE PARKING LOT!!! 

   Space on the 15-passenger van is always at a premium. You can always use more room to stretch your legs or breathe or not be sitting on top of someone else, so it might not seem readily apparent why rolling down the highway minus one or two kids would be a bad thing.The only problem is that we are expected to come back with not only the same NUMBER of youth, but the SAME EXACT youth. And when you consider I’ve never even successfully balanced my own checkbook, I don’t know how I can be expected to keep up with human lives. Ridiculous.

3.  I will accidentally cut my own hand off and bleed to death while slicing poboy buns for yet another fundraiser, because the only time I ever slice anything is when I’m
   asked to slice something for a fundraiser. I try to stay absent during food-making events.

The honeymoon is bound to be over soon. Eventually somebody with sense is going to realize that I’m not qualified to guide the next generation toward anything but damnation, and that sucks, because I’m having a good time training them in the way they shouldn’t go.

So, until the ride is over…YOU DO NOT HAVE TO PEE, STAY IN THE VAN!!!

* Hint: The stuff in red is from Jesus. Jesus is an important character in the Bible. You can buy the Cliff’s Notes to the Bible for less than $10 from Amazon. You’re welcome.

When I was a child, I resented all of the normal-looking grown folks who would stop me and my mom while were out shopping to ask about my peculiar-looking face.

“Oh, poor thing! What happened to her face?”

And there I was, a traveling zoo exhibit trapped on the bread and Hostess cakes aisle while my mom responded with more grace and kindness than I thought was necessary.

I remember one time we were making a run to Walmart, and I had made mega plans to use money I had saved to buy a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle talking action figure. The figure came with this orange strip that you pulled through a hole in the back of the turtle’s shell, and the turtle would say something cool like “Cowabunga!” or “Turtle Power!” They were going to be the newest, most epic members of my Turtle force fighting against the evil Shredder!

We were walking toward the back of the store where the toy aisle was, and I saw the roadblock coming up in slow motion, and we were only to the stationery aisle! Not even within eyeshot of the toys! I began using my underdeveloped psychic mental powers against that person, to will her to do anything else but ask me about my stupid ugly face. Because when you are 5 years old at the store, you’re either in a hurry to get to the toy aisle or to leave the store after visiting the toy aisle.

Don’t-ask-don’t-ask-don’t-ask-don’t-ask-DON’T-ASK-DANG-IT-GO-AWAY-I-WANT-NINJA-TURTLES-NOWNOWNOWNOW!!!

It didn’t work, and I was stuck staring at Post-it notes and paper clips while my mom talked about birth defects and surgeries and dreams of fixing the whole darn thing when I was older.

In my fantasies, my mother would respond in these situations with something biting or sarcastic that would make that person feel small and insignificant, and then she would swoop me away to the toy aisle while everyone in the store would stop their shopping to cheer and clap for our victory, but we would be so cool that we would pretend we didn’t even notice our audience.

She never did that, because her heart isn’t cold like mine, and, in my old age, I’ve realized that perhaps being made to delay gratification for 2 minutes is not child abuse.
But when I was 5 years old, and some normal-looking adult stepped in the way of toy aisle joy, that 2 minutes filled me with kindergarten righteous indignation.

How DARE you impede my progress toward the toy aisle! I am FLUSH WITH CASH, and I want to buy a Ninja Turtle—STAT!

Last night I went to Walmart bound for the Easy Mac aisle, and it happened. I didn’t even have time to use my psychic mental powers against it.

“Gosh, darlin’! What happened to yer face?”

I was alone. I don’t shop with my mom anymore, because I’m 28 and not 5, but I still usually respond with grace and kindness, just like my mom taught. I usually opt to delay gratification to be a good person.

But not last night.

“Excuse me. I need to get to the Easy Mac.”

That’s right. You aren’t keeping me from the Ninja Turtles this time!

Ninja Turtles? I meant to say Easy Mac. Easy Mac. Yeah…Easy Mac…and maybe Ninja Turtles, too…

Ever since posting my now-famous “What’s in my shower” video, I’ve been hounded by my fans to post more videos.

And when I say “hounded by my fans,” I mean that one of my five fans, Joe*, will ocassionally say to me, “Hey, have you posted any new videos? I liked that shower gel one.”

(Joe is not mentally handicapped, as far as I can tell.)

Not a girl to ignore the desperate cries of her fanbase, I have created yet another video. This time, after a weekend of unbridled clearance rack spending, I will re-create the classic “haul” video based on my trip to Old Navy this week.**

A haul video, for those who have never been bored enough to wander YouTube aimlessly after you’ve watched those talking babies 50 times in a row, is a video traditionally starring a young woman who basically shows the audience everything she bought during a recent trip to a store. It’s a very First World kind of video.
You basically show the audience what you bought, comment on it (“This is sooooo cute!” “This is sooooo fun!” “This is soooooo sexy!”), add some commentary about what you might wear with it (“I thought this would look really cute with jeans for when I go to the mall and shop for more clothes!”) and then also tell everyone how much you paid for it (“It was, like, $35, which is a STEAL for a pair of pleather leopard-print skinny pants with the word ‘Juicy’ written across the butt!”)

I, personally, can’t imagine watching me do this for 10 minutes straight, but I can’t argue with proven YouTube success, and people have shown me time and time again that they can tolerate me for surprisingly long periods of time.
I guess watching a haul video is kind of like going shopping with your friend and watching her try things on in the dressing room, but the only problem is you can’t tell someone on YouTube that the dress shows way too much boob, because she’s already bought the dress, and you don’t know if she kept the receipt. And she probably wants it to show too much boob anyway.

Anyway, I submit to you…a haul video!

P.S. Clearly I’m a flip-flopper when it comes to whether or not I like cheerful butterflies on my clothing. I contradict myself within a three-minute time period on this very important issue.

* His real first name
** I know the facially deformed, and ugly people in general, don’t need to bother wearing anything more eye-catching or flattering than sackcloth and moldy flip flops, but I am stubborn enough to pretend like, yeah, I really do look sexier in skinny jeans than in mysteriously-stained elastic waistband sweat pants.

Today is election day. Yes, that exciting day when you take part in the Democratic process by striding up to that voting machine, examining the list of candidates and thinking to yourself “Who are all these people? And what does a constable actually do, anyway?”

God bless America.

I know I’ll be voting, because nothing gives me greater pleasure than the satisfaction of canceling out the vote of someone with whom I disagree.

This time around, I’m also super excited that my voter registration card shows my current address so that trying to cast my vote in the sleepy town of Gautier won’t be like the epic journey of carrying the ring to Mordor.

Around this time last year, I made my sleepy way to the polls to cast my vote for Gene Taylor, who was running for his 11^th full term as a U.S. representative. (He has a great head of man-hair for an older man and is a black belt in taekwondo. Just sayin’.)

I went to the Gautier Convention Center, which is where practically the entire city votes. I had moved since the last time I had voted, but I knew this is where I should vote, because my friend who lives just one apartment complex down the street once told me she votes there.

I had not updated my address information at the circuit clerk’s office since moving, and I didn’t really think about that until that Tuesday morning. But I figured that wouldn’t be a problem. I would just vote affidavit, right? This didn’t seem like such a problem, when I thought about it in the idealistic playground of my mind.

When I approached the counter, I told the poll worker my address and said, “It’s probably incorrect on the sign-in sheet. I recently moved. I will probably have to fill out an affidavit form.”

“Where did you move to?”
“To [insert address here].”
“Oh, you don’t vote here. You vote at the little church down your street.”
“Are you sure about that? I’m pretty sure my friend said she votes here, and she lives next door to me. I figured I would be filling out an affidavit ballot here.”
“No, I’m sure. I used to live on that road and that’s where I voted!”

In retrospect, I was an idiot for getting out of line and driving all the way across town to that little church based on a woman directing me to an alternate polling location because she used to live on the same road as I do.

The road I live on is long. It’s a microcosm of America as a whole, really, encompassing the kinda ghetto to the kinda nice…all by Gautier standards anyway. I live on the end of the road where a woman was found tied up in her house and left for dead after a home invasion. The polling lady probably lived on the end where everyone eats gormet, farm-raised mullet and authentic Swiss chocolates for lunch, and they wash it all down with Evian, because Gautier water is the color of pee.

As I’m sure you can tell already, when I arrived to the little polling place church, my name was not on their list. Of course. The elderly poll workers there proceeded to talk smack about the wannabes running the show at the convention center, and then backed up their disses with the official Blue Book that showed that people with my address vote on the other side of town. The other side of town from which I just drove after being referred to the little polling place church. I was sent on my way with well wishes and the sage advise that I should tell people how to do their jobs.

“Good luck! Just tell them to look up your address in the Blue Book!” I heard behind me as I turned to walk out of the door.

Feeling like quite the little disenfranchised voter—was women’s suffrage all for naught?–I returned back to the convention center to wait in line again. The mayor saw me and asked how I was doing.

“Oh, great. I’ve been all over your city trying to vote.”

But, really, the best part of the story is when I get to the front of the line a second time, and everybody acts like I’m the only person in the whole city who has moved without updating their address. Then someone finds someone who finds someone who says that I can vote using an affidavit ballot. My relief at finding someone who seems to have at least heard about an affidavit ballot is quelled by the realization that she thinks she is doing me a once-in-a-lifetime favor by allowing me the right to vote.

“OK, we’ll let you fill out this affidavit ballot, but we need you to update your address with the circuit clerk’s office.”
“I think I should have just lied about my address.”

The worst part of the whole story? After all that work I did to cast a vote for him, Gene Taylor lost.

I should have just stayed in bed.

(But you aren’t allowed to stay in bed. You need to go out and vote.)

On Sunday, I sat next to a child who was privileged enough to play cell phone games for an entire church service.

Before I whipped out my phone for a round of Angry Birds I started thinking to myself, “Dang, I wish I were 5 again, so I could play cell phone games while grownups do grownup things”…and then I realized that I’d spent the last 12 minutes off and on mentally deciding which three types of cake I would take with me to a deserted island if I could only choose three types of cake. Serious business, you know. (Chocolate cake with decadent chocolate buttercream frosting, angel food cake with a strawberry and Cool Whip topping and turtle cheesecake. Red velvet cake, devil’s food cake and all other forms of cheesecake were contenders that didn’t quite make the cut.)

If I think about it, I’m a well-behaved grownup at church only about 25 percent of the time, and perhaps even that is a generous estimate. The majority of the time I am pestering people, peeking during prayer, stealing free notepads and Kleenex and just scheming in general. The fact that I remember anything from any sermon ever preached is a miracle that proves the existence of God.

1. When I’m not thinking about desserts in the desert, I’m thinking about lunch. Church has the unfortunate distinction of taking place right around lunch time. Sure, Jesus is the bread of life, but sometimes my mind wanders to more literal forms of bread. There’s at least one point during the sermon where I’m either deciding what I’ll fix for lunch (“Hmmm…ham sandwich with swiss…or cereal, perhaps?”) or I’m doing the mental math to determine if my budget will allow me to eat at Raising Cane’s AGAIN. If it earns me any good behavior points, I’ll mention that I try to do my meal planning when the preacher is telling one of those stories preachers love to tell to spice up their sermons. You know, like the story about Big Tom taking a whipping for Little Billy after Little Billy was caught stealing Big Tom’s lunch at school back in the days of one-room schoolhouses and walking uphill in the snow both ways when the world was in black and white, and that represents Jesus Christ dying on the cross for my sins. Yeah, one of THOSE stories.**
2. I walk out of the back door to skip the line to shake the preacher’s hand if I’m just not feelin’ it that day. Sorry, Pastor. I know the only reason you slave in the ministry is to earn the privilege of grasping my little hand into your preacher hand and giving it a good throttle while I say “Good job!”, but today I can’t handle the interminable line to greet you knowing it will add a solid 2 minutes to my wait time. Maybe I’m hungry. Or sick. Or claustrophobic. Or in the mood to cut the next person who wants a hug, even though I’m sure Jesus once told a very special parable about not cutting people while standing in the preacher line after church. But I’ve got a handshake and an encouraging word just waiting for you next time we meet, Pastor. Or maybe I’ll just send a card. That should cover me for about a month’s worth of handshaking, right?
3. I actively avoid being the person volunteered to pray out loud. When I’m in a group situation where someone in the group is about to get volun-told to pray out loud, I make sure to look anywhere else but at the person who is about to do the volun-telling to greatly decrease any chances of being the chosen one. Now, to clarify, I’m not a wimp. I do out-loud praying if called upon, but I’m an amateur in the specific fine art of out-loud prayer. It’s like handing a paintbrush to a preschooler instead of Picasso. I’m always thinking, “Surely there’s someone who sounds a lot more holy than me standing in this circle.” (Bonus points if the freakin’ pastor or any staff members are standing in that circle.)***
4. I bring in an almost-empty water bottle and fill it up with water from the fountain before I leave. Yeah! Free water! YOU CAN’T STOP MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!
5. I audition outfits at church. When I want to wear ridiculous tights and wacky accessories, I wear them on Sundays first. It’s the only place I go all week where I can find a full-length mirror, and, if I did wear shameful duds, I would hope at least a few people would come up to me and tell me, “God told me to tell you that He wishes he could go back in time and add an 11^th commandment that would outlaw the outfit you’re wearing. That’s how awful it is.”

I could add a few other things: Playing connect the dots with the lights on the ceiling, texting people when someone says something hilarious (“OMG did he just say that?!? And the G stands for GOODNESS!”), being distracted by Micah when we’re reading out of Matthew (“Where did this book come from? Has anyone ever read this book before? Dang! I’m lost! How do I get to Matthew from here?!? HELP!”)

Am I alone out here? They say confession is good for the soul, so I’m coming clean. Now you know my unholy habits. I hope we can still awkwardly side-hug on Sunday mornings.

Also, my birthday is December 16, and now you know some of my favorite cakes. You’re welcome.

** There’s also a preacher story about, I swear, doughnuts and pushups. I don’t remember the storyline, but it had doughnuts and pushups, and the “good” character was named something like, “Mr. Christianson.”

*** Certain people, who shall remain nameless, should not use this opportunity to volun-tell me for prayer at every opportunity for the rest of my life.

(10 imaginary, useless points to whoever can name the song quoted in the title)

The other day someone pointed out that I was crying.

Yeah. I knew I was.

If you’ve ever watched me closely (And why wouldn’t you? I’m amazing.), you’ll notice I do a lot of right-eye maintenance. I rub and poke and swipe at it like I have a nervous tic. It waters constantly because of a surgery I had when I was 14 that required cutting the magical little membrane that keeps your tears back somewhere behind your eyeball—I hope this isn’t getting too technical here. Ever since then, that eye has always been busy preparing a tear or actually shedding a tear.* (It can’t see, but it’s anything but lazy!)

I usually stop it before it rolls down my cheek in obvious tear form, because the water buildup gets irritating if I let it sit there for too long. But sometimes I get involved in normal moments of life, like participating in lively conversation or eating a cheeseburger or staring off into space and daydreaming and I forget that I’m supposed to be maintaining my petulent eye. So what you saw was a moment where I just neglected it.

So, yeah, I know. My bad.

You don’t have to tell me. I may not feel it running down my face in that moment, but I’ll catch it in a minute. And, good grief, I don’t need a tissue. That’s why God gave me a right hand.

And I’m gonna bust a secret wide open here: It kind of annoys me when you point out that my right eye is crying.

Don’t worry. I’m not mad at you. We can still be friends. You can still shower me with gifts on my birthday (December 16), and I will still take then and forget to send you a Thank You card. I just wish you wouldn’t point it out, that’s all.

It feels like the adult equivalent of your mom wiping drool off your chin. I didn’t even know the tear was there. I mean, I knew…but I didn’t know at that moment. You know?

I always know. I’m always aware that I have a facial deformity and everything that accompanys it, including that stupid watering eye. These things are always in the back of my mind. I’m not constantly, conciously renewing them, but they dwell in the back of my mind. If they aren’t actively working, they are lounging on Lazy Boy chairs with their feet proped up. They belong there in the back of my mind.

So they don’t pack up and leave just because I’m in a familiar setting. I know that doesn’t make sense, but there’s just different depths of awareness depending on the situation.

Job interviews or being in a classroom of small, inquizitive children or being out in public with a friend evoke much more personal awareness of being different than being at home or going to work or visiting with my best friends.

So maybe if I had been interviewing for a job in a place where no one looks like me and I had to worry about everything about me that would make me seem incompetent or less-than-everyone-else, I wouldn’t have missed that tear. I would have felt it forming inside of my eye before it even ran down the side of my nose. I would have wiped it away as quickly and covertly as possible, because I would have been pretending as much as possible that I am the elusive Normal.

But I must have missed it in that moment I was talking with you. You were making me laugh, and you were more interesting than my face in that one moment. The ideas that there are things wrong with my face were still present, but they were reclining back in their living space. They may have even been catching a nap.

That’s OK. Those thoughts deserve a moment’s rest every once in awhile. Let them nap as long as possible. They’ll wake up in a minute, because they’re light sleepers. I’ll wipe my little tear away with the back of my right hand, and I’ll once again know in that moment what I’ve always known.

* You should see the eye boogers and crusties that grow in there. OH MY WORD. They are a thing to behold.