Ah, the face. We use it for talking. Emotion. Attraction. Or repulsion, in my case. Eating. Seeing. Sniffing. Pleasure. Recognition. Childish fighting. Facepalming. Plastic surgery. Nose picking. Breaking a piece of wood in two. And many people use pictures of the face for dart practice. My face is hideous. But I’m okay with that because I don’t have to look at it. Unfortunately, other people do, which is probably why no one has ever loved me. Sniff. Whimper.
The forehead is dull. It has no purpose. Even scientists say that, and they’re never wrong. Except for that time when they thought the Earth was flat. But can you really blame them for that conclusion? Give them a break. Physiognomy tells me that my forehead means I am magnanimous, bold and confident, and that I have virtue and good understanding. I don’t think that’s me at all, but human beings are not great judges of self-characterization. My eyebrows are thick and awful. They do that thing where they spread out at the end and I have to pluck them because it looks awful. It’s the start of a monobrow, basically, universally seen in the western world as pure evil, but universally seen in the rest of the world as highly attractive. In some European countries, it’s considered a sign of virginity. Erm, I think I’ll forget about the eyebrows. Oh, and they exist, in case you’re wondering, to keep water out of your eyes. Clearly, evolution hasn’t heard of the umbrella.
I don’t like my eyelids. Something awful about them. And my eyelashes don’t fare much better. Although rare, I occasionally get trichiasis, ingrown eyelashes, which I have to pluck out. They usually grow back normally. I don’t know if you’ve ever plucked an eyelash out, but it is, without doubt, the most agonizing pain a human being could possibly undergo. It burns. For hours. Every – single – time. Oh boy, let’s move on. To the philtrum, which is the appendix of the face. Mine is hardly visible. And beneath it are the lips, which I have problems with. Probably why nobody has ever wanted to kiss them in 23 years. Sniff. Whimper.
I’ll go for my nose. I don’t know why. I like my nose. It’s not a particularly special nose; it’s just a regular nose. It’s relatively small, neither flat nor round, ever so slightly turned up at the end. Just a smidge. It’s widely regarded as the most attractive nose type. Apparently, we are quick witted and aggressive. I object to that. I am not aggressive. And Sigmund Freud said a love of the nose indicated a love of penis and was a strong indicator of homosexuality. Oh Sigmund Freud, what a lickspittle barmpot peckerhead dastard twerp you really were. You never got anything right and that is why I’m proud to say, “I love my nose!”
My nose. What I think is the best feature of my face.
The Penultimate Friday Bonus Question:
Plucked from the basement of the internet, a bewildering real question that defies logic and an answer, here for you to ponder:
Would it be wrong if I ate my sister’s turtle?
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The Indelible Life of Me
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Hark Around the Words
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