addie: slut
addie: slut
addie: slkut
addie: slut
addie: slut
addie: no
addie: slut
addie: slut
addie: slut
me: question
me: what do you think of me
addie: i think
addie: youa e beautiful
addie: and amazing
addie: smart
addie: sarcastic and funny
me: and a slut
addie: you have pretty eyes i relaly like them as much as you dont
addie: and good lips
me: it wasn’ta serious question
addie: ohh
addie: …im gay…

As the whole world knows, I have skin problems that just never go away forever. After the 10-year run of acne, I believe I am in the final leg of that race, because aside from a few zits now and then, I do not wake up dreading the mirror for that reason, because they have always disappeared by the next morning. Still, my face is not going quietly. A full year after going off Accutane, it continues the rebellion. You do not know dry skin. YOU DO NOT KNOW DRY SKIN. Okay? Because you don’t. You poor baby, your face may feel icky and hurty in the winter, but does it look it? Is it flaking off? Do you have to spend the good part of your shower rubbing at your cheeks and mouth and nose as hard as possible because no exfoliator is going to make a difference? And then put on moisturizer, wait, put it on again, wait, put it on again, okay go makeup go before it dries–oh damn, okay, put it on again–and then–then–yes, I think I should make it until this afternoon? Okay? Right.

I finally bought miracle wash, and within a week I was practically cured. It’s amazing. My skin is soft and pretty and no more pores smiling up at anyone, and everyone told me at Thanksgiving how grown up I looked. Renay said, “You have skin like a movie star!”

ME.

But I think my self-esteem boost is getting to me, because now I’m having these weird dreams. Two nights in a row, among other things happening, was this:

1. I popped a pimple on my cheek and it formed the biggest crater ever, so big that I could FEEL THE BREEZE IN IT.

2. My face was great where I washed it, except right up by my widow’s peak, because I tend to avoid that area as it’s annoying to get the face wash out of my hair. I woke up the next morning with huge, huge blackheads. Enormous. But these weren’t ordinary blackheads. There was a cluster of five or six, and I pulled them out of my forehead with tweezers, and they were like thick black hairs an inch long, and then they left MORE CRATERS.

I like, can’t get these images out of my head. I’m really grossed out. I felt like I had to share that with the world, because these things are just too much for me to handle on my own.

I know I’m back home when I can’t sleep because some animals are running foot races all over my damn roof. Wee little foot races.

I have something to confess.

In somewhere like second grade, Mrs. Farmer had us play a game where each flip form got a word and then had to think of a song that contained it in the lyrics, like “red” or “bridge.” My group got “grass,” and obviously we were going to lose. Until I piped up about a song called “The Grass Is Always Greener (on the Other Side of the Fence),” and we got the point.

It wasn’t actually a song.

I just sang those words to “Just a Spoonful of Sugar (Makes the Medicine Go Down).”

Those fake lyrics get stuck in my head far too often, possibly out of guilt, or merely a testament to my godlike lyricisms.

To my fans, I’m sorry.

Other people eating my ice cream has pushed me into tears.

Reading about Columbine for class has left me awake for hours in shakes and thinking about mortality.

I’ve never been less excited about things happening in my life.

I can’t think of a single thing that would make me feel better.

No one has seen me vulnerable in a very, very long time. I think that is what’s wrong with me.

I got up early, dressed amazing, went down for pancakes, then went to church. Me walking down St. Thomas More Rd. was a picture of perfection.

Still, all I want to do is get home next week, wear a kitty cat for a pretty hat, stare my dog in the eye, make some money, and go shoe shopping.