I have lines on my upper lip.

I do.

I was looking in that stupid, blow-up mirror.

I saw them.

I can’t fucking believe it…

I have those little, tiny, vertical lines on my upper-flipping lip.

Like an effin’ Bubbie that’s been sucking on a cigarette while playing Mahjong on the beach in West Palm. No offense, Sadie. I’m sure you have a perfectly good reason for just sitting there all day. Shit, who am I to judge? I sit here all day…doing nothing but slurping on Starbucks, and blogging about dumb stuff no one could possibly give a fuck about. But yes, I have lines. Little, tiny fucking lines. And I seriously want to kill myself over them. When I noticed them at first, I did a double take, I did. I called Zac into the bathroom…and I made him look. My twelve year old. And he was pissy. He was like, “Mom, are you for real? You are so weird.”  And maybe I was a little embarrassed. But then, I wasn’t. Fuck him! I have done so much for that kid. He can get up off his lazy ass, and look at my lip. I wiped his ass until he was eight.

Confirmed. He saw them. Lines. Fuck.

So, I got on the internet.

And I ordered every God damn lip product on the market. I didn’t care if it plumped, or it de-aged. Or it makes my lips fall off, I ordered it. I am not going to go down gracefully, people. I will fight to the end. No way am I dying looking like crap. I wouldn’t even look at my Grandma last week, in her coffin. I couldn’t do it. I wanted to remember her pretty. And youthful. And well, how I pictured her. Is that bad? I swear, those bitches at the Esteé Lauder counter used to sell my Grandma wrinkle cream, and I couldn’t believe it! And she was 90. Come on, you assholes! You can not take advantage of a little old lady like that! But you know what? She wanted it. And she loved it. And it made her feel good to use it. And at 90 years old, if she wanted Esteé Lauder wrinkle cream…then she should have it. Jeez. It’s so hard being a woman.

Maybe it’s not…

Maybe it’s me?

Maybe I just make it hard? Rhetorical.

So, I joined this new site, OKCupid. Have you heard of it? You answer all these INSANELY personal questions. And I mean, personal. Let me give you an example: You walk into a room, and see your significant other licking red wine off of another person. Do you? And then they give you four choices. One of which is to join in the fun. HA! I shit you not. This site is legit. So, I just figured, if it’s a match…it’s got to be real! Wrong. I got verbally abused, berated…and I walked out of a restaurant. Oh, and those were three different dates. Solid guys. Not. The first asshole called me a “stupid bitch” for not wanting to date him, when I realized he lived 89 miles away. He asked me why I didn’t use the “distance filter” on the website. I explained I was new, and to cut me some slack. He told me I wasted 20 minutes of his time. I told him I dodged a major fucking bullet. The next guy accused me of flirting with another guy on our date. Can you say insecure much? Fuck I don’t have enough energy to flirt with one guy, let alone two. Kiss my ass, Mr. Asian Fusion. Needless to say, I left the bar in an über. Buh-bye.

This is my life.

OkCupid, you suck balls.

Who needs you anyway? Mr. Right will find me, when I’m not even looking. That’s just how this shit happens. It’s all about timing. And I’ve got nothing but time. But I do wonder sometimes if my Mr. Right will mind the fine lines on my upper lip. Or the scars on my tits. Or the cellulite on my ass. I wonder, if he will still love me when I’m 96, buying wrinkle cream. I had a date the other night, with this charmingly handsome man. And he had the sexiest wrinkles next to his eyes. I pointed them out. I actually said, “I just love these. They are my most favorite part of a guy.” And I touched them. I think I freaked him out. But wow. Sexy. Men get hotter with age, don’t they? Maybe I’ll leave the crow’s feet next to my eyes alone. I think my Mr. Right might just like them. ;)

xo j




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