By Alexander Pines
I am a diamond. Flawless. My aura is porcelain perfect. If I were a toilet you could eat your dinner straight out of my bowl. But then I would have your tongue on me and doubtless it is disgusting. You should really get the smell of your breath checked out. It could kill me.
Do you see my teeth? They’re like chiclets. Sometimes I catch myself smiling in the mirror and I want to pull them out and pop them into my mouth and chew and chew because that’s how cute and nice and square they are.
And I only use Fiji water to wash my face. It’s pure, unlike the swill everyone else seems content to douse themselves with (and I imagine they drink it too!). That’s why my pores are invisible. It’s like they’re not even there. Unlike yours, I’m sorry to say.
I had a special copy of the Oxford English Dictionary made so my picture could be printed next to “perfect.” Because I’m funny, too. Extra prints are selling on eBay for up to three thousand dollars. I’m a minor celebrity in Akron, Ohio, okay? This face? It’s basically a collector’s edition.
And they love me on Tinder.
Drugs? Of course not. Well, not dirty drugs. I make sure that the pharmacist filling my Abilify prescription wears gloves and a respiratory mask the entire time. I even make them double-seal the bottle. Because a little bit of dust and…who knows what symptoms a tainted antipsychotic might trigger? Besides, my piss is as clean as a newborn’s, I’ve never failed a test. Of any kind, actually. I joined Mensa when I was…five?
That baggie, the one that you’re looking at, over there? That’s clearly on my roommate’s desk. It’s obvious which side of the room is hers—that fan is from K-Mart, for Christ’s sake. K-Mart. You can even tell from looking at the carpet. I think hers might contain sentient life. That is, if you could see it through the small mountain of polyblend and, God, I think she even wears straight up plastic. Like plastic bags. For when she runs out of panties. I had to start carrying Febreze to escape the toxic cloud of JJ’s leftovers whenever I walk in. It’s her you should be talking to.
Look, I don’t know anything about arson. And even if I did, it would be for the better that all of those horrible tacky things got burned up, okay? The world doesn’t need any more neon pink jeggings, so whoever set those fires was doing society—no, humanity!—a favor. And like, yeah, it’s sad and all that sometimes the fires happened when people were still wearing the abominations but still—hey! Put those handcuffs back on that slimy rubber belt of yours, these are freezing! And filthy, you pig! Do you have any idea what this could do to my nails?
What do you mean fingerprints at the scene matching mine? Fire burns shit up, duh, how could there be fingerprints? Besides, I never leave the house without gloves. My father will have something to say about this, officer. Expect to hear from our lawyer. I’m clean!
By Mabel Taylor
No. But, heck, everyone starts their day a little bit differently! I prefer to kick it off with a meditation on the fluids and crusts my body produced during the night. If I don’t have time to give a tissue a mighty snot blast, wipe the crusted globs of gunk from my eyelashes, and pick the dried spittle off of my forearms, I won’t feel right. I look at it as a reminder that I am alive.
Let’s see… I go down to the bathroom. Generally, I don’t brush my teeth. Tooth brushes are phallic. And I don’t like mint!
After I take a hot little piss and drip dry, I’ll wash my face because I’m already in the bathroom. I don’t buy my own soap because I’m no Midas. Come on! Instead, I’ll just throw on some of Ms. Roommate’s Purell and get out of there.
After my jaunt to the bathroom I head to my closet and rummage around a bit. I’m not afraid to admit I love getting dressed. I wanna look good! Getting dressed is an art, a prayer. I’m not looking for something simple, easy, or clean.
When it comes to undies I’m sort of picky. If I’m in the mood to don some droopy drawers, I like to wear a pair of the black or dark blue variety. Dark colors are nice because they contrast well with any vaginal discharge I might be expelling.
After my undergarments are taken care of, I curate my outerwear. I don’t have a strict formula; I’ll wear anything with a hole for my legs, I like to say. As long as the color and smell is me.
My beauty look is easy to achieve. I don’t wear makeup because it creates a barrier between me and the rest of the world. I strive for open communication. Hair: I only wash my hair once or twice a year in order not to wear out its natural fibers. And honey, the grease says it all.
A shower? There are occasions that warrant a shower. I enthusiastically shower on the major Pagan holidays and anytime I feel like my stench to quirk ratio is out of whack. But how can I be 100% sure I’m shower-worthy?
I shower when I feel dirty… And I’m not talking about literal grime here, because I think that the world would be a better place if we all just accepted ourselves a tad bit more, I’m talking about Morally-Disgusting- Fire-Breathing-I-Am-A-Bad- Person dirty. In those rare moments where my own moral poverty astounds me, showering is a phenomenal relief. The hot water pounding on my head and shoulders cleanses me in a way nothing else can.
I embrace the archaic institution of showering only when I really need a sturdy moment of self-flagellation, like after those occasional bursts of violence that leave me with a hole in the wall and a bloody stub for a toe or when I forget to call my mom. Sometimes there’s nothing a girl can do but repent. Now I wouldn’t call myself religious, but there’s certainly something spiritual about washing away your sins with a bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo conditioner and a coarse stone. But unless I’ve gone on a sociopathic pleasure-bender, for the most part I stink on.
So that’s it! If you have any questions, let me know, but I can assure you I don’t do drugs or anything illegal for that matter. My roommate? She’ll be around later. Oh, what? No, I’ve never used Tinder before, I don’t believe in online dating.