I Wouldn’t Like Me If I Were You

Why don’t you just give up?

You ever figure out that the entropy of the universe is so much greater than the work you put into gathering all the pieces back up? That no matter what you do, you cannot prevent the eventual collapse of yourself, those you love, and in the larger scope, civilization, life as we know it, and the earth?

This is the realization I come to every day, when I try to comb my hair.

Hairstyles are misnomers. Their real name should be hair-lies. My hair doesn’t look like this, ladies. My hair looks like I’ve spent the past decade in a humid vagina. Sure, I’d like to have, but that’s just what it looks like. And ladies, this work is all for you. But let’s make a deal. You can stop shaving your legs, and I can stop lying to you with my hair. Excellent. Now for the cuddling.

Ow. Ow. OW.

Alright, old system’s better. Shave your goddamn legs.

And that's what entropy does to us. It makes our asses sag and our hearts fail. It makes our hair grow where we'd rather not have it grow. Disorder is the natural state of things.

Maybe I’m crazy, but I simply don’t like trying to pick up the pieces of my rapidly failing body. I’ve got dandruff, eczema, and my bellybutton smells like my asshole. And last week, I had a fingernail just…fall off. Not the whole thing, just the piece that needed to come off, did. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been happier in my entire life.

It’s just beyond me how anybody can reasonably expect to dedicate hours, and in the long run, years of your life, trying to fix what’s been broken since birth. A smelly armpit is nature’s way of telling you to get the fuck out of the sun. Dandruff tells you that wearing dark-colored shirts is the Devil. Flaky skin is God’s way of informing you that nobody will ever, ever love you. Can’t we, as a society, take the hint?

No? Then can we at least make the "cures" efficiently attainable?

When I was a teenager, I had acne. It wasn’t as bad as my syphilis, but still, I felt like I should do something about it. So I went to the pharmacy, where the only acne creams available, worked under one principle: “don’t like your face? Why don’t you SLOWLY BURN IT OFF WITH THIS ACID ?” No thank you, Acne-cleanse, now with 3.9% Hydrobenzyl 3-burntoacrispone, 6-AHHHHHHHHHHH, acid.

So I went to the doctor, and I told him that I preferred not to sand-blast my face into a new shape with creams. He told me, “Well then,  Accutane’s the answer. Just take this, 2 times a day, for the rest of your life, and your acne will go away.” That’s amazing, I thought. “How the hell does this stuff work?” I asked him.
“Oh I don’t know. Nobody knows. It just sort of works.”
“Oh, alright, how did they find that out?”
“Well, it used to be a chemotherapy agent, and then they noticed that patients who took this stuff never got acne.”
“Oh,” I said, with my balls in my throat. “Is that before or after they figured out it can be used as a packing material for 17th century muzzle-loaders?”
“There is a downside,” he stressed. “You might die.”
“What? It can kill me?”  I asked him.
“Well, not really. It just makes you so depressed that you want to die, and you might do it to yourself.”
“Yeah, whatever, but it won’t make my cock flaccid or anything, right?” I inquired.
“Oh, it almost definitely will.”

It’s a medication that murders bacteria AND people. I got a name for a medication like that. It’s called fire. Jesus.

Accutane fixes what was broken, by virtue of breaking everything else. You can try to fix the problems Accutane, and every product like it, causes, but you're just going to end up with more. And this is the kind of hamster wheel that won't even get you in shape. It'll get you looking like Michael Jackson, painted and grotesque.

The state of vanity in today’s world is insane. It’s so far beyond the pail that it’s actually bejeweled the pail and is now calling it a goblet. But changing your actual appearance isn't worth the hassle. There's got to be a better way. The first dude to figure out what that better way is will be the richest man alive.

Here’s my own proposal: real-life photoshop. You put a pair of high-tech glasses on your face, and it photoshops everyone on earth to look like all the waxen models that the mass media has convinced you that humans look like. It would be based on the same technology used to make Andy Rooney look like he's still alive.

That Madonna –looking prostitute too veiny for you? Poof, fixed. Oh, that WAS Madonna? Still, fixed.

Don’t like the baggy pants on those black guys on the corner? Poof, fixed. WHAT BLACK GUYS ON THE CORNER?

Don’t like the muffin top on that homosexual gentleman wearing hot pants? Poof. No, I’m not doing the photoshop trick, I’m just calling him a poof.

It would sell faster than hot pants for the distinguishing homosexual gentleman.

But just because that product doesn't exist, stop harming yourself chasing your youth. If you just wait a while, you'll forget what your youth ever looked like. And on that day, you can join me in the nursing home, and we can eat some pudding together or something. I'll do my best to not get skin-flakes in your pudding cup.