Scars
Ok, what is it with this scar cover-up equipment today? Yes, yes, I know you want to look pretty and nice; I know there's this directive dedicated to all life, and driven into us since our teenage years, to look nice, but when did scars become a symbol of ugliness?
We have wrinkle-creams, pour masks, face-lifters, hole-fillers, pore reducers, hair dyes, split-end remedies, pimple creams, spot removers, color-toners, lypo, rhynoplasty, tummy tucks, fanny lifts, breast reductions, breast enlargements, hair transplants, brow lifts, and color contacts. All these things seek to cover the unsightliness - do we really need scar reducers too? Maybe I'm just a young, married, hot individual and come from a time when scars make you look cool, like a he-man that faced perils innumerable and emerged victorious, and like Conan, scars prove that the best in life is to "crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentations of their women."
I have scars - the epic battle between two colossal four-year olds that ended in the destruction, after many days and nights, of the sleepy hamlet of Glass Coffee Table. I emerged victorious and carry the scar immediately to the side of my left eye as a badge of honor. There was the time the back of my head decided the door-opener of the bus was weak and therefore to be crushed, which resulted in the Venus of the fourth grade (her name really was Venus, and yes, she was soooo hot) to cry over me and my fate - as hot women always cry when they see their heroic, Adonis-like champions laid low. Numerous scars dot my hands and arms from that black-hearted vermin Bilbo (my wife's favorite cat) from the times my resolve and courage held firm and his evaporated like a fart in the wind. Maybe the most victorious one was the time I went against a glass pickle jar with a knife (I had the knife, not the jar) to punch air holes in the top so all thirty-four, finger-length Brim could breathe in their underwater depths.
Can you tell I like scars?
We have wrinkle-creams, pour masks, face-lifters, hole-fillers, pore reducers, hair dyes, split-end remedies, pimple creams, spot removers, color-toners, lypo, rhynoplasty, tummy tucks, fanny lifts, breast reductions, breast enlargements, hair transplants, brow lifts, and color contacts. All these things seek to cover the unsightliness - do we really need scar reducers too? Maybe I'm just a young, married, hot individual and come from a time when scars make you look cool, like a he-man that faced perils innumerable and emerged victorious, and like Conan, scars prove that the best in life is to "crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and hear the lamentations of their women."
I have scars - the epic battle between two colossal four-year olds that ended in the destruction, after many days and nights, of the sleepy hamlet of Glass Coffee Table. I emerged victorious and carry the scar immediately to the side of my left eye as a badge of honor. There was the time the back of my head decided the door-opener of the bus was weak and therefore to be crushed, which resulted in the Venus of the fourth grade (her name really was Venus, and yes, she was soooo hot) to cry over me and my fate - as hot women always cry when they see their heroic, Adonis-like champions laid low. Numerous scars dot my hands and arms from that black-hearted vermin Bilbo (my wife's favorite cat) from the times my resolve and courage held firm and his evaporated like a fart in the wind. Maybe the most victorious one was the time I went against a glass pickle jar with a knife (I had the knife, not the jar) to punch air holes in the top so all thirty-four, finger-length Brim could breathe in their underwater depths.
Can you tell I like scars?
posted by Jeremy Tucker at
8:13 AM
1 Comments:
I like them a lot more after reading your freewrite than I did before. If you get a chance, there's a piece called "Scars" in last year's anthology you may want to read.
By
Donna Sewell, at 9:07 AM
Post a Comment
<< Home