Accutane Really Does Work (Alternate Title: A Post Written By Captain Obvious)

I've been struggling with temperamental and sassy skin since I was about thirteen. Despite both of my parents having angel-skin, when I hit puberty my sebaceous glands exploded and acne began its dictatorship on my face. I tried the more accessible drugstore products first: Clean & Clear (more like Dirty & Pimply, am I right, ladies?), Neutrogena, Clearasil, I tried it all. Now I've come to believe that drugstore acne products are a conspiracy and that they never really clear up acne so that you're forced to keep funneling money into their products for all eternity (insert diabolical laugh), but I was thirteen then and my parents didn't care about my face, they cared about my grades - I took what I could get.

Around sixteen, my mom finally realized how distraught I was about my bubble-wrap face and decided to buy me Proactiv. "Get clear skin!" they said. "Solve all of your acne problems!" they said. Yea, if you're not allergic to Benzoyl Peroxide. I had to stay home from school for three days because my face swelled up about twice its normal size and was covered with a rough, red, alligator-texture rash. I was at my sexiest.

I thought it was a lost cause and so I spent the next couple of years slathering makeup on haphazardly to hide the blemishes. At eighteen, I moved to New York City to start as a freshman at NYU. I thought it wasn't possible for my skin to get any worse but BOY WAS I WRONG. It got so bad that I was finally forced to be an adult and go see a dermatologist. I was prescribed a course of Doxycycline, Clindamycin topical gel, and Retin-A Micro. And guess what? That shit WERKED.

Cut to a couple of months after the course of oral antibiotics was finished and my old friend acne had returned. My derm prescribed another course, and this cycle of success/represcribing a couple of months later when the acne returned continued until about a year and a half ago when the antibiotics stopped working completely. My pimples did a lot of scoffing and were very proud of themselves. For the time being - they had won.

This was taken right before I started Accutane and is a good indication of how shitty my skin had been for most of my life. This photo and all subsequent photos in this post were taken without makeup to give you the full picture. HONESTY, Y'ALL. REAL SHIT.

That was the first time my dermatologist mentioned Accutane. The only thing I knew about it at that time was that it was serious business and that it had a hilarious anti-pregnancy warning on the packaging. I was too nervous, he told me to research it a bit,

This is no joke the pregnancy
warning on Accutane. HILARIOUS.

and I was sent away with some useless topical cream to try. It didn't work (duh) and about two months later I came back to my derm for help. Again, he suggested Accutane, but a combination of sheer stubbornness and fear prevented me from saying yes. I left that day with a prescription face wash. During this time I even tried Benzoyl Peroxide again - rationalizing that I gave up too soon the previous time and that my skin just hadn't adjusted to the chemical (spoiler alert: I was still allergic). After yet another two months of agony, I came back in. "There's really nothing left to try at this point - except for Accutane," said my patient, tolerant, prince-of-a-derm. FINE. I'LL DO IT. JUST GET THIS SHIT OFF OF MY FACE. My response directly to him was a bit more polite. I also was not shouting (except internally).

I don't know if you guys know this about Accutane, but it is a pain in the ass to take. Before you start, you need to get blood taken to make sure all of your levels and potassium and sugar/spice and shit are on point. Then the doctor sends over an approval request to your insurance company, provided you have health insurance. The approval process takes about a month - then you need to come back in and get blood drawn to make sure you're not pregnant. This is because Accutane will cause you to have deformed Dawn of the Dead zombie babies. After the blood is analyzed, you come back in to see the doctor and get your first legit prescription for Accutane. However, before you can pick it up you have to go online and answer a series of condescending questions about your sexual activity (Is it OK to use condoms alone while on Accutane [as in, just condoms as birth control - not condoms for one]? Your significant other pulls out, is this enough [...to not have a baby]?). Once you make it through that Sex Ed pop quiz, you bring your prescription to the pharmacy (with your Accutane "I'm not pregnant" card - you think I'm kidding?) where you have a one-week window to pick up your monthly supply or else you have to redo EVERYTHING. And that's right, I said monthly supply because you have to repeat this process every month that you're on it.

So anyway, one month after that visit I'm sitting on the couch, about to take the first pill, when I start reading about Accutane's side effects. You thought WebMD was scary? What is this, amateur hour?! Accutane has been linked to arthritis, IBD (Chrone's disease, etc), kidney and liver issues/failure, chronic joint and muscle pain, depression, bipolar disorder, the disease from "Cabin Fever," and a hundred other terrifying things. I was frozen in fear and apprehension which quickly disolved into apathy as I took the first pill like the badass, taker-of-risks that I am (I'm not really a risk-taker, I was just so defeated and pretty much at the point where I'd live with an ouchy body if it meant not having pimples - I trust anyone who's had acne knows where my head was at).

Mid-way through my five-month Accutane treatment.

Starting about three weeks in and lasting the entire duration that I was on Accutane, I had chapped lips that could rival Khaleesi's when she was crossing the red waste (yea, I just did that), eyes so dry that they rejected contacts, and the strangest boogers, but other than that, I was actually fine. No aches, no pains, no major organ failure, and no flesh-eating rashes with Rider Strong (tying it back in to "Cabin Fever" here, people - try to keep up). Since my skin was super frail at this point (for example, you must avoid waxing as it will rip off the top layer of your skin - someone had to find this out the hard way, let's have a moment of silence for them), I switched my skincare regimen to the most delicate of products (LUSH's Ultrabland as face wash and Celestial as moisturizer) at the suggestion of my dermatologist.

Five months went by pretty quickly and although the process of getting blood taken, coming back a week later to get the prescription, answering pedantic questions, and then finally being able to get the medication was UGH SO ANNOYING - in the end it was 100% worth it. It's been a couple months since I finished taking it and my skin is only getting better each day. I haven't had to buy a blemish-related product since and my makeup has gotten steadily lighter and lighter. For the first time in my life, this past weekend, I ventured into public without any makeup on. I couldn't be more pleased.

Taken about a month ago and about a month after finishing Accutane. Again, no makeup here. MY EMOTIONS.

In terms of the side-effects, I got lucky. If you're interested in taking Accutane, please check with your dermatologist and go through the necessary smart-person steps before doing so. It is a serious drug and should be taken responsibly, under the watchful eye of a licensed doctor, and only after other attempts have failed you miserably.

Let me know if you have questions? I guess?

TV Censorship: Are You For Monkeyfighting Real?

Last week, as those of you who know me in the real world are already aware, I was bed-ridden with what can only be described as the black lung my body entering a Guinness World Record competition for the most mucous produced in the shortest time span. Coupled with a sore throat, blinding sinus pressure, and a fever, I could have also probably won the Guinness World Record for grumpiest lady on a couch who hasn't showered in three days.

Naturally, I had to find a way to occupy myself that didn't involve speaking, moving, or leaving the apartment (or showering, as mentioned above). I resolved to spend my time watching y-rate horror movies that I had DVR-ed, much to Sam's chagrin, while eating countless granny smith apples and forcing my cat to stand upright so that I could play

Don't judge me. This movie rules.

her belly pouch like a guitar and make whammy noises with my mouth. You see, I'm plagued with this problem where if I see a movie that I love when surfing the cable guide, I just have to record it. This explains why I had "Aladdin," "Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom," Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,"  "Twister," "Hocus Pocus," and "Powder" on the DVR list, about 2% space left to record shit, and a very frustrated boyfriend who tried to explain downloading to me over and over again. Recently I had DVR-ed two really stupid horror movies simply because I hadn't seen them and I knew there would be a time. That time came last week.

The two movies were Boogeyman 2 (because the first one was so amazing AMIRITE?) and My Bloody Valentine (feel free to click the links and get a synopsis). They originally aired on the Sci-Fi Channel during what must've been some type of worst-horror-movies-of-the-past-five-years marathon and I figured if I watched them, that'd be two less DVR-ed movies for Sam to brood about. They didn't scare me in the slightest and were both pretty much on target with what I expected from them: a recycled plotline, a killer that has superhuman strength and unparalleled disappearing skills, and a lead chick who's helplessly and frantically running about as fast as her mascara is. What did scare me was the Sci-Fi Channel's use and disuse of censorship (which, I'm sure, also applies to most other television channels).

You see, while I was watching these movies I mostly forgot that they were recorded off of live television. With such imagery as a girl having her face split in half horizontally with a shovel, a guy drinking chemical floor cleaner and then foaming from the mouth while the corrosive liquid eats through his neck, and another girl with an eating disorder having tubes stuck in her veins, mouth, and stomach and being pumped full of her own vomit until she explodes, I thought that I surely must be watching some unrated, back-alley, Netflix Instant version of the films. Nope. I was not. And how was my memory refreshed? Because when the killer was discovered and tried to say "God Damnit!" all I heard was "...Damnit!"

I mean, don't get me wrong. Sometimes censorship is HILARIOUS. Take this TV-censored version of the famous "Snakes on a Plane" quote, for instance:

But this time, not so much. I'm still confused on whether censorship is a government-sanctioned parental control so that children don't accidentally see something too inappropriate or if it's adults censoring themselves as to not create a class of subhuman, violent, cursing, TV demons. Either way, what sort of message is censorship really sending out? Violent, brutal murder involving puke and gardening tools is perfectly acceptable but don't even think about using God's name in vain when you're caught. I mean WHAT? What kind of moral code is that to follow? Personally, I'd rather have language like Debra Morgan's be aired consistently on prime-time TV then have movies like the ones I watched go completely uncut. Also, it's so Judeo-Christian-centric to assume that the whole of the United States (and maybe the world, I'm not certain how global TV censorship works) finds it offensive to hear cursing that involves God, Jesus, Noah and his arc, etc. If you're going to censor based on what's offensive to religious groups, then you need to do so for EVERY RELIGIOUS GROUP. You got me? Also, murder is a sin/part of the Ten Commandments too and yet you still air that edit-free on TV. Explain.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that censorship is pretty much monkeyfighting useless. You can't censor children or adults from the scariest shit out there: real life. The news will give them gruesome murder, peers will curse in front of them, and yes, non-religious folk will let the Lord fucking have it. If it were up to me, everything would just air on TV in its original state: curses, shovels, and all. But it's not up to me (unfortunately...there'd be so much more cheese, avocados, and cats if I ruled the world) and there will continue to be misplaced censorship as long as parents keep convincing themselves that the cursing on the tube transformed their kid into Ted Bundy and not their horrible, abusive parenting. Go figure.

What "The Human Centipede" And My High School Choir Have In Common

Mom, if you're reading this, please turn back now.


There, I feel better now that I have that maternal disclaimer up there. I don't think I could stand to look her in the eyes after I wrote a post that references The Human Centipede. When I went to IMDB to get the link for that last sentence, I noticed the actual title is "The Human Centipede (First Sequence)." Will there be a second sequence in our future? Since Harry Potter has now officially reached its end, I guess I do need a new movie series to follow (I kid).

"The Human Centipede" centers around a creepy douchebag whose main goal in life is to haphazardly sew women together in order to make a working centipede out of them. In the movie, which I have yet to see (the one star rating on Netflix isn't really swaying me either), he somehow captures three women and is able to make his centipede-y dreams come true. Don't ask me how he is able to successfully kidnap three women at once but hey, the female gender is just that helpless, amirite? EDIT: three people. There was a dude involved in the ass-to-mouth fun. In order to create THC (not referring to home-brewed weed here), he sews one woman's open mouth to the other's butthole and has them kneel on their hands and knees in a single-file line. Thus, with each meal the first lady centipede link consumes, she poops it into the lady link behind her's mouth, and so on down the line. Forever. Charming, right?

Upon hearing this description, it's natural to feel an intense wave of revulsion and anxiety. Go on, take your time to say "blehhhhhhh" aloud if you haven't already.

Now that that's taken care of, I'd like to state that I don't think being the Human Centipede would be all that bad. Before you freak out and judge my personal life, let me clarify: I don't think being the first in line in THC would be all that bad. Yea, I said it. Granted, I wouldn't choose to poop into some girl who was sewn to my butthole if I had the option, BUT, if I was forced into a THC-y situation, you best believe I'd volunteer myself to be the head car. If you ask me, that's the best seat in the centipede house.

Like this, except not at the Sears portrait studio.
Picture me as the little boy in front: soaking up all the
pleasure without giving a single fuck.

At this point you're probably asking yourself, "But Taylor, what does this have to do with your high school choir?" The answer? Massage trains. Each day, before we started warming up our vocal cords, our instructor thought it would be beneficial for us to warm up our bodies. Since we were in rows, we would start by turning to the person to our right and massaging their neck and shoulders. Then, we would turn the opposite way and massage the person to our left. This was to ensure that everyone both received and gave a massage at some point. If we didn't change direction, there would be someone in the front who was getting the wonderful pleasure of a tension-reducing massage without having to do any massaging themselves. This, my loyal readers, is the philosophy behind choosing to be the first centipede link. However, instead of giving the person behind me a mouthful of human shit, I was receiving a wonderful massage from a 16 year old peer.

So, if you're ever kidnapped with two of your besties and told that you're going to be sewn ass-to-mouth-to-ass-to-mouth, don't freak out. If you remember what you learned from high school choir massage trains (or girl scout camp massage trains or interpretative dance class massage trains...) and make your way to the front of the line, the future may be that much less like 2 girls 1 cup brighter for you.

Advice From a Bunny-Owner: Why No One Should Ever Own a Bunny

Not my bunny, but a bunny nonetheless.

About two years ago, I decided on a whim that I would get a bunny. They're extremely cute and I had whimsical premonitions of walking him in Central Park, on a leash, wearing a floral dress (me, not the bunny). I did a teensy bit of research, at least enough to know how to properly care for one, and then I scoured Craigslist for a couple months looking for an all-white bun with black eyeliner (the breed is called a Hotot). Finally, an extremely enthusiastic bunny lady with at least 20 or so buns in her New York City apartment, posted a picture of a six month old, neutered, white-with-black-eyeliner, blue-eyed boy bunny. He had to be mine.

Don't get me wrong, I would never give House up now that I have him. He's going to be with me until he decides to part this realm for the great beyond. In the beginning, the cold, unfeeling, robotic, unblinking, fish-like eyes and complete lack of a affection were a bit jarring. But now, especially since I've found out which treats he goes apeshit for (any flavor of these Smaks cookies and Lacinato "dinosaur" kale), we've sort of gotten used to being around each other. He never bites me, he's pretty quiet, and he keeps to himself. Also, he's pretty fucking cute. I mean, he is a bunny rabbit afterall. However, when he does finally reach the end of the line, I will never EVER get another rabbit again. Here's why:


Poop...Everywhere

Ok ok, all animals poop a lot (except my man, the sloth!), but rabbits are OUT OF CONTROL. They poop about ten BB gun pellet-esque poops every minute. Most bunnies can be litter-trained (House is), which definitely makes cleaning up these little things a lot easier. It does not, however, change the fact that the sheer volume of pewps is absolutely overwhelming. Within about five minutes of cleaning House's cage, there is already a one-inch layer of doodie in his litter box. As if that wasn't enough, most rabbits like to leave little surprise gift poops wherever they go. I let House out of his cage and around my room to hop about freely and no, he is not an exception to the surprise gift poops rule.


Midnight Flubber

Did you guys see the movie Flubber with Robin Williams when you were a kid? If not, the movie Flubber is about an amorphous, mischievous, transparent, green glob of goo (wassup, alliteration?) that scientist, Robin Williams, creates in order to win back a girl...or something? Anyway, the most important fact to retain is that Flubber is a portmanteau of "flying" and "rubber." If let go in a room, Flubber will bounce from wall to wall, ricocheting off of everything and smashing all of your earthly possessions. Another vocabulary word to remember in this section is "binky." Binkying is what happens to a rabbit when they are ecstatic. Here is what binkying looks like:

It's a pretty spastic phenomenon (om nom nom) and almost looks like their back legs are trying to run away from the rest of their body. Why House would be OVER-THE-MOON happy in the dead of night in his cage sleeping in his own feces is unknown to me, but if your bunny is anything like mine, he will binky at midnight while trapped in his cage. What's wrong with this you ask? When in a confined space and very happy, bunnies ARE Flubber. House ricochets off of the cage bars and floor making loud banging and thumping noises until his unstoppable glee subsides.


Butt Juice

Like most animals, bunnies have anal scent glands that need cleaning. Once a month, I have to go in with a damp Q-Tip, spread what I GUESS are his butt cheeks, and swab some nasty shit out of his anal glands. This graphic cartoon from binkybunny.com describes where I have to perform this graceful routine. The little slits marked "anal scent glands" are my Q-Tips' target. If I didn't grow a set and take care of this, his butt would get all backed up and possibly explode. That, or I'd have to take him into an exotic veterinarian (not exotic as in exotic dancer but exotic as in not cats and dogs) every month and have him or her clean them and pay for it with an internal organ. It definitely makes the process more enjoyable to have your bunny kick you with his back feet as hard as he can while you poke his butt with your fingers. I assure you.


Pica 4Eva

If you don't know what Pica is, you can get yourself educated here. Pica usually refers to people who eat inedible things/inanimate objects, but for the purpose of this post, I'm using it to describe bunnies. The first day I got House, I made the mistake of turning my back for .2 seconds. When i turned back around, he was just finishing eating an ear bud. In those .2 seconds, House had eaten my roommate's pair of headphones WHOLE. Since then, he has managed to eat plants, closet doors, rugs, his own poop, backpack zippers, and probably a nibble or two out of Shadow the cat's feet. When I'm not using my removable window screens, I have to put them up as barriers all over my room just to keep him from eating anything on the floor when he's out of his cage. The days of wires and clothes on the floor are no longer. I once watched him take a quick, test chomp of a wire right in front of my eyes and go flying 14 feet in the air from the electric shock. He almost turned from my pet to my meal that day.


It might be hard to tell from this post, but I really do love House. He's my babby bunny and as far as I'm concerned, he can eat all the headphones he wants. But when he's gone, the only rabbit I'll be having in my house is a chocolate one.

Why You Shouldn't Butter a Bagel While Driving

So in between getting my cervix biopsied (yum) and taking a business trip to the hot, steamy, armpit-esque Florida (sorry Floridians, but your state is not hair-friendly with its consistent 99.9% humidity), I haven't been able to update in a while. Sorry about that. I thought I'd mark my return to trolling the bowels of the internet with an anecdote about my childhood. Shall we?

Every summer since I can remember, my mom and I drove up to Quebec, Canada to visit my aunt and uncle (the ones who own the ostrich farm). It takes about nine hours to get there, but with my mom speeding like a maniac and getting at least one ticket each way, it took about seven or eight hours. On one particular trip, when I was about six years old, my mom decided to pack a dozen bagels and a big tub of butter so that we wouldn't have to stop for food and could get to our destination faster (What kind of behavior is that?). Since she was trying to save money on gas, my mom refused to use the AC for as long as she could stand it. Instead, we drove with the windows wide open on the highway so that we didn't melt like the Wicked Witch of the West. Unfortunately, that didn't stop the giant tub of butter from melting.

About halfway through our trip, I decided I was starving. My mom, not wanting to pull the car over and therefore "lose time," decided she would butter my bagel (this is not a sexual euphemism) while she drove. She reached into the back to grab the melted tub of butter, which was nestled in a pile of my bedding (we had to bring extra pillows and blankets to my aunt's house). After procuring the tub and stabilizing it on her lap, she reached back again to grab a bagel and a butter knife. Then, without taking her hands off of the wheel and instead, taking her eyes off of the road, my mother proceeded to butter a bagel for me while cruising up the highway.

As you can imagine, within about five seconds, we were skidding off the road at 70+ miles per hour and doing a life-threatening donut on the shoulder of the highway. The centripetal force of the car spinning in tight circles caused the entire contents of the butter tub to be dumped on my face. By the time the car finally stopped spinning, I was hysterically crying, drenched in liquid butter, and resembled a baby lobster at the mercy of Paula Deen.

Some people stopped to help us out, but overall, everything went better than expected. The car had a dent in the door from the sign post we had swerved into, but was otherwise in perfect, working condition. I wouldn't let my mom clean me up with my pillowcases because I didn't want to get them dirty, to which she responded, "Taylor Paige, you are covered. In. Liquid. Butter." The evidence she presented was irrefutable and I let her clean me off with my bedding while weeping full-force.

On the way back home from Canada, we picked up more bagels and butter for the way home. This time, the AC was on full blast and when I whined for a bagel, my mom pulled over to butter it.

Maybe You're Pregnant

If you're female, you have heard this suggestion at some point in your life. Sometimes it's legitimized and in response to something like "I haven't gotten my period in five months and my stomach feels like there are tiny feet playing a tiny soccer game in it." Sometimes, it's in response to mundane things that happen frequently to most of the population, including males. I'm writing this post now, on behalf of all women, to tell everyone that unless you are 100% certain that the person in question is actively trying to get knocked up, you should shut the fuck up and keep your pregnancy foreshadowing to yourself.

The future people force me to imagine.

Pregnancy would absolutely ruin my life. I am far too selfish to care for something that isn't small, furry, and poops in a portable box. If I tell you I woke up nauseous and had to stay home from work because I felt pukey all day, do not, I repeat DO NOT, tell me that it's because I'm probably pregnant. Those are nightmare words for me to hear. Sentences like that cause horrible mental imagery of me holding at least nine spitting, crying, pooping babies and looking like my soul died. They also make me incredibly paranoid. I start thinking of all the scenarios in which I could be pregnant: maybe someone replaced my birth control with certs, maybe some guy jacked off into the washing machine and then when I washed my underwear some fusion occurred, etc. (THIS CAN'T HAPPEN BUT THIS IS WHAT THE WORD "PREGNANCY" DOES TO ME). I also don't want to hear you suggest pregnancy if I've been eating like a heifer recently. Maybe I'm just hungry. Maybe I eat my feelings (I do). There are plenty of other reasons why I would be consuming everything in sight other than having a bun in the oven. Also, don't you know how rude it is to comment on how much someone is eating? News flash: it's very rude.

I love how casual the
pickle outside of the jar is.

Lastly, if you're female and love pickles THIS DOES NOT AUTOMATICALLY MEAN YOU'RE PREGNANT. I just fucking love pickles, ok? When did they become emblazoned on the metaphorical pregnancy flag? They are low calorie, satisfyingly crunchy, salty, garlicky goodness. I would like to enjoy all my pickles or be able to freely declare that I want 54 of them in my mouth at once without someone gasping and saying "maybe you're pregnant!" Maybe you're making horrible, earth-shattering assumptions that will ruin my life forever (or at least for the rest of the day). So again, on behalf of all women who eat their weight in food, get nauseous sometimes, and heart pickles; please stop convincing us that we are carrying Rosemary's baby. Thank you and good day.

How To Trick Yourself Into Feeling Clean Without Actually Showering

Happy mushroom farmer

This post is loosely based off of a conversation thread or two in my favorite exclusive Livejournal community, smash_club. If you shower regularly and are the picture of hygiene, than this post obviously is not for you. If you're like me and you find yourself too exhausted from work/school/farming mushrooms/whatever to clean your own body when you get home, then read on. Please note: I'm talking about skipping a day or two every now and then. For the most part, I shower every day. Don't start spreading rumors.


Spot Wash The Important Parts

I can't believe I'm saying this (my mom reads my blog for fuck's sake), but wash your bathing suit areas. This means your junk. All of your junk. No need to go crazy because then let's face it, you might as well just hop in the damned shower. Just take a damp washcloth and go for the gold. If you're feeling especially fancy, wipe down your armpits and neck too.


Change Your Clothes

The clothes you're currently wearing have, no doubt, absorbed some of your nastiness and filth by now. Change into something crisp and clean and the cycle will start anew. The detergenty smell of the new threads is guaranteed to make you feel a little bit fresher, at least temporarily. If you're too lazy to change your outfit, at least change your draws (drawers? I'm talking undies). It will make a world of difference.


Wash Your Face And If You Have Bangs, Wash Those Babies Too

If your face and crotchbutt are clean, you will also feel clean. This is just basic biology (or is basic biology more about mitochondria and phyla and shit?). Wash your face with cool water and soap. If you have bangs, like I do, give them a good shampoo in the sink. Boom! You are squeaky, Mr. Clean clean!


Dry Shampoo Is Your Friend

Spray that shit all over your nasty hair. I'll be honest, even when I'm showering daily (again, MOST OF THE TIME), I rarely wash my hair. I like to tell people that this is because my hair is extra thick and can withstand

Marie Antionette: another fierce lady who rarely showered.

the natural oil buildup and New York City street debris. This is true, but I also push the envelope a bit when it

comes to hair hygiene. Flip your hair to one side and then spritz it with the dry shampoo layer by layer. The dry shampoo absorbs some of the oil and gives your hair a bit of fluff. This is not really too noticeable though. What it DOES do is make your hair smell like product for the day instead of like ass tacos and shame.


So Is Perfume

Everywhere. Don't make me say it again. Just spray that shit. Perfume used to cover up the fact that people didn't shower often back in the Renaissance-y days, and it can help you do that today as well.


Braid Some or All of Your Hair Into Something As Intricate As...I Don't Know...Math?

You want it out of your face and off of your neck right? Well braid it! You can french braid (if you're skilled like that, I'm not), braid yourself a headband from the hair behind your ear, make a low braid and put it all back (make sure to take this out in the evening before it turns into dreadlocks from sheer filth volume alone), braid it all up and across your head like a little milkmaid, or even braid just the front section (this is technically a twist). Everyone will compliment your steady hands and dedication because everyone fucking LOVES braids. It's a fact. Not only that, all of the hair-related compliments will make you feel less soiled and more awesome. Troof.


So those are my tips. Am I a disgusting person? Probably. Is this relevant to my current cleanliness? I don't want to tell you (is that ass taco and shame I sense?). Either way, I hope these things are helpful next time you're feeling less than fresh. And I'm sorry for all the cursing, mom.


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