Jun 7 2011

Name Blame Game

Hey Kids!

I have a habit of naming parts of myself that I take issue with or just plain don’t like: pimples, a bad hair cut, extra weight. This way I can hate an aspect of myself without actually hating myself. I’m much better at blaming someone else for my problems, anyway. Just ask my shrink….or my mother.

For example, I call my extra weight “Janet.” When I eat too much ice cream and my thighs rub together I just say “DAMN IT JANET” or “MISS JACKSON” if it’s nasty. I went through a period of time when I thought I would look sexy as a red head. And if your definition of sexy is a dirty Russian whore, then yes I did. Until I got it back to a semblance of normal color I called my hair “Olga.” When my dating life slowed and my love of vodka got excessive, I blamed Olga (she was such a drunk whore).

This strange habit started in college when, one sunny Sunday, I made my first and last attempt at becoming bulimic. I quickly learned that self-start vomiting was harder than those skinny bitches in my sorority made it look. With them it was so adorably natural, like a little baby burping. Alas, when I tried to pull the proverbial trigger, I looked like Schwarzenegger in “Total Recall.” Not as cute.

All that straining caused a blood vessel to pop in my eye and those things don’t just disappear. They get bigger and bigger until your entire eye is blood red. If I was auditioning as the host of a zombie virus a la “28 Days Later,” I would have been set. But, I wasn’t. I was going to college parties and trying to pull tail. So, instead of telling the truth about my botched bulimia, I just told everyone that this shit in my eye was a bitch named “Poppy” who’d crashed my brain and made me do crazy things like wear mid-drift bearing lace dresses and take beer bongs…often at the same time.

It became an ongoing joke I could bask in rather than hide from. It worked so well that a mildly attractive frat guy actually tried to get with me. He said he’d never had a “threesome.” I think he wanted to cum in my eye, so I respectfully declined.

Still, it had opened up a whole new world to me. Why should I be self-conscious about my blemishes when I could make them someone else and mock them out right? I’m really good at judging other people. So now I use my weakness to play to my strength.

Recently a pimple named “George” decided to visit my face unannounced. When I went out, he’d come too and I’d introduce myself as “Burrito and this is my pimple, George.” People would greet him with aplomb and my boyfriend even kissed him goodnight. Eventually he got the memo and moved on. We parted ways on good terms, although I have been meaning to talk to my boyfriend about etiquette and face guests.

Earlier today Pork Sausage texted me. She was a bit testy, claiming that I gave her my pimple. “Oh no, no that’s not me,” I said. “That’s George.”