I absolutely adore polyester. I have clothes that I have been wearing for over 16 years and someone else wore them for 20 years before that and they are still in excellent condition. Only polyester is capable of this kind of fashionable sustainability.
Now my brain is stuck on my own personal sustainability. What can I really live through that I haven’t already? Have I worn myself thin at 31, my threadbare skin as transparent as my various personalities? Or am I polyester, indestructible?
I am that orange and white houndstooth dress that your Mother forced you to wear for your second grade portrait day at school. Scratchy, stiff polyester scraping your neck, itching at your underarms and making your butt sweat. Oops, you spilled some milk, no big, watch it bead and roll away like it’s been personally offended by the physical contact. Run and play all you want, you can’t wrinkle the motherfucker.
Today, the hideous beast escaped again and shit all over my face.
Rosacea, you evil fucking bitch.
I am hiding behind mounds of concealer, foundation, powder and mascara.
Can you see me?
I am all I see,
everywhere I look there is a reflection of the face I am trying to run away from.
I spend hours trying to hide the evidence, applying, reapplying, erasing, filling every pore to capacity, I am never satisfied. The lines not right, unevenly placed, ill defined.
And now what? What is it for?
I am hiding, no one will see me today.
Today went to shit as soon as I woke up this morning and looked in the mirror. I occasionally get a hideous rash that begins on my neck and travels up and around my face. Last night it began to appear and by the morning it had staked its claim on my entire face, clusters of tiny red bumps that itch and burn. This shit ruins my fucking life; I can’t leave the house, I can’t wash my face and I can’t put makeup on. My skin is so uncomfortable that activity of any sort is really out of the question, so I go back to bed. I wake up, look in the mirror, yep, I am still a monster and I go back to bed. I shut all the curtains and stare at the dark walls, trying to pretend that today doesn’t exist. My dreams are filled with anxiety and frustration. In one scenario I am late for an important dinner being hosted by my dead Grandfather. I am frantically trying to get myself together but I look like shit, my hair is a knotted mess, I stink like ass, my dress is wrinkled and no matter how much makeup I slather on my face I look like a fucking red-faced monster.
At one point today a delivery came which I was alerted to by the hysterical barking of my dog, Choe. I wait for the truck to leave and hesitantly crack the door open. At my door is a $300 package of facial products and makeup that I had ordered a week ago, good quality hypoallergenic products. I am pretty sure that it is cheap ass drugstore makeup and cleansers that cause this rash in the first place seeing as how I have super sensitive skin. So, at least once my swollen beast like face calms down I will have decent makeup that won’t lead to any further facially offending episodes. Unless of course the rash has nothing to do with makeup and my skin never goes back to normal again. In that case not a single person will ever see me again. Yes, I am the vainest fucking person I know.
I want to walk in a town I have never been to, a town I don’t even know the name of. I want to simply appear somewhere without a plan, without any expectations. I want to wander aimlessly; free of trappings, burdens. Slip into dark corners without fear, without hesitation. Walk with the wind, comfortable and light. Embrace the warmth of the sun and fall naked beneath the glow of the moon. I want to feel the hard ground beneath me and know that it is real, that I am real, to know that I exist as an actual physical being with lungs, skin and fingernails.