Beauty or Brains?

I must say that being complimented on intellect is somehow better than being complimented on looks.

Or . . . maybe it's just me.

Okay, I'm not saying that being told you look nice isn't flattering. I'm just saying that it's nice to be noticed for things beneath the surface.

Heightism

There are many evils in the world with the suffix -ism. There's racism, sexism, classism, and even that with which my boy Barack has been maligned, elitism. (And I've got to post on the state of my boy's campaign . . . good Lord. Another day, another day.) But it's with horror that I've realized that I've been a perpetuator of another insidious, probably less-heard of -ism. Heightism.

How did I realize that I was a heightist? I was discussing past dealings with a friend, and we both kept unconsciously hating on shortness. When my friend once again offhandedly and ever so slightly deragatorily mentioned, "Yeah, he was short, too," it hit me. We were being heightist! We were perpetuating our society's preference for tallness and feeding into the ideology that gives tallness a position of privilege. Somehow, in the recesses of our feminine minds we accepted and embraced the mantra that "taller is better."

The first step to overcoming heightism is to acknowledge that there is a problem. To acknowledge that heightism even persists in our society. Some people say that heightism is a thing of the past. They even say things like, "I'm height-blind," or to convince you of their open-mindedness, "My best friend is short." Nevertheless, if faced with a tall guy and a short guy, all other things being equal, who is most likely to be chosen?

I openly admit my heightism. I'm trying to deal with it. I must admit, however, that hotness is a trump card of sorts, and would definitely rid me of my heightist ideology.

P.S. (added 4/30/08 @ 2:04 p.m.): I must also add that it's easier to rid oneself of heightism if a guy is allowed to "grow" on you. Har, har.

I have fought the good fight . . .

I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.

The 10 pager has been done, and an all nighter was not pulled.

I could have waited until tomorrow to do the nitpicky works cited, but naw. I wanted that sucker done and sent off tonight so I wouldn't even have to THINK about it tomorrow.

Thank you, thank you. No, no, get up off of your knees, now . . . worshipping me is not necessary . . . I know, I know . . . but you can't be me! ;-)

Hot shower, and cozy bed. Perhaps I'll sneak some warm chocolate chip cookies in there too.

Nearing the Halfway Mark of Page 3 . . .

A little bit of work, a little bit of blogcrastination . . . hey, whatever it takes to get the job done.

I just had to share this random thought as I started talking about how level of education factors into an individual's attachment to the nation-state:

I was thinking about how thus far, my interactions with members of the opposite sex on relational terms have been on extreme ends of the spectrum. Either they've been darn near wanting to marry me (or actually telling me that they did) or almost blase about me. Either mad intensity or so unintense I wonder why they even bothered. Burning out of control or tepid. Feast or famine. Decadent double fudge caramel chocolate brownie coconut pecan raspberry swirl or fat-free vanilla frozen yogurt. Can a girl get some strawberry cheesecake? Sheesh.

On the Verge of Page 3 . . .

Observe my progress:

Observe my relative contentment:

Another Procrastinatory Post

I'm starting to question myself: Why am I doing this? If it takes every ounce of me to work up enough nerve to even START a paper, what makes me think I'm going to be able to write a hunkin thesis before next Spring?

It took me forever to read articles galore, highlight the points I want to bring out, and to make an outline of my scattered ideas. That's right. I haven't even started yet.

On top of that, I have a final to contend with even after I pack this sucker away. Maybe I'll fare better when I don't have a full-time job that dominates most of my time.

Oh, well. Let me at least get to page 2 before tonight is over . . .

The Young and the Restless

Tonight, I tried to duplicate the sticktoitiveness that produced my previously completed 5-page weenie paper. Why is it a weenie paper? Because 5 pages ain't jack. Especially in grad school. Unfortunately, similar results were not observed tonight.

I thought, well, maybe if I go to that same Starbucks, that same I-must-get-my-work-done spirit will infuse me and I'll get to it. Not so. First, I was thrown off by the subtly flirtatious baristas, and then made a wrong move by deciding to sit outside to commence my reading. I should have known better. Being outside is my mind's number 1 prompter to wandering. At least I came up with an official, smartypants sounding title for my looming 10-pager: "Inclusivity vs. Exclusivity: Identity in Contemporary Spain." I highlighted maybe 3 lines of scholarly article before I decided that a change of venue was needed.

Books-a-Million didn't snap me out of it, either. Blast me for stowing away that Newsweek in my tote bag before leaving home! Identity in Spain or Barack vs. Hillary? I chose the latter. I just couldn't seem to get with it. I kept zoning, even on Newsweek.

Then instead of taking notes on my articles and formulating paper points, I started making a list of stuff I like. I'm trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. My list:

Spanish
foreign language and culture

travel

reading

politics

race relations

writing (esp. personal, reflective writing)

art (anything involving creativity)

helping other people

I know lots of careers could fit into that. I mean, teaching fits into that. But I don't know if I want to make a long-term career out of it. I don't know if I want to make a career out of academia either. Just the thought of publish or perish makes me want to cry. Becoming a travel writer or a book reviewess would be more logical if I had a background in journalism, which I don't. Become an interpreter for the UN, some have urged. Yeah, after I master like, 5 more languages.

How did I go from being an anal, focused, energetic overachiever to a spacy, restless, undecided limbo-lurker?

I cannot believe this is my 3rd year teaching. It's ridiculous. Dude, I JUST graduated from college. I cannot believe I am 26. I mean, I was just 20 yesterday. And now I'm supposed to be graduating with a Master's in a year? (Sigh.)

BTW, my Peruvian friend scored my position. I knew she would. I still can't get over how completely God that whole process was. I went to a bookstore I didn't normally frequent, just happened to sit by a certain couple, I just happened to be wearing some cute Sketchers, and my friend just happened to have an accent to compliment them in, and she just happened to have a background in Education and just happened to be looking for a teaching job. Bam. If God can do all of that, then I know He can at least give me some direction for the rest of my life.

I'm taking a shower and then snuggling up in my sunflower covers. "Identity in Spain" can wait. Hmph.

Typical

I think one way that I can make myself write papers is to go to Starbucks where there is no free WiFi, sit in an uncomfortable chair, and get my work done. I did my five-pager in one sitting, and that's near miraculous for me. I got there at about 5:30 or so, maybe closer to 6 and left at about 9. That's pretty good time, even with my little zoning breaks. If you knew me, you'd know that I have a bad zoning habit.

As much as I whine about being atypical, today I realized I could have fit perfectly into a box. There I was at Starbucks, ears stuffed with iPod buds, wearing a "Barack The Vote" t-shirt and flip-flops, typing away at my little Dell, sipping a latte. All I lacked was a pair of black-rimmed glasses. I also left my "I heard it on NPR" bag at home. That would have also given me street cred, in a manner of speaking.

I Think, Therefore I Smile

These are just a few of many things that make me smile just thinking about them. A few make me laugh out loud. I could be in the middle of class teaching, but then something will make me think about one of these super funny things, and I have to control an overwhelming urge to laugh. Mind you, I laugh at weird things, and many of them are "you had to be there":

1. I was driving around downtown Atlanta with a friend over Spring Break. We came to a stoplight, and there was a man dancing on the corner. It was around 9:00 a.m, and there was no music. There he was, in his corner, in his own world, doing 80s moves. What topped it off is that this other guy jogged by unfazed, like the crazy corner dancing man was just part of the routine. And I guess that's what set me off. Like, the absurdity of what was going on with the dancing man juxtaposed with the normalcy of everything else going on around him.

2. My aunt started a new job. I'm so proud of her. She works for the State at one of the unemployment offices . I nearly collapsed when she told me that she read that someone had gotten fired from McDonald's for eating "unauthorized" apple pies. LOLOL. Tell me that's not funny! I mean, number 1, getting fired from McDonald's in and of itself for some reason sounds hilarious, and then on top of that, for eating "unauthorized" apple pies?! I mean, that put me over the top.

3. I laugh when I think about the prospect of which instructor I'm going to be paired with during my assistantship. There's a possibility that I could be paired with this really cute Spaniard who was actually in one of my classes last summer. He was finishing up classes to graduate and I was just starting. He's got this curly hair, wears glasses, and has that lovely Spanish lisp. I just laugh thinking about how funny it would be if I actually did get him, and how I would be the best teaching assistant ever if I were paired with him.

4. I laugh when I think about this red-haired 1st grader I see every week. He's so cute, but has the mischievous smile of a little troublemaker. He has both front teeth out and when he comes into my class he has one finger over his lips and his other hand with two fingers up (the quiet signal) like he's going to be so good. And most of the time, he isn't.

5. At the end of my Spain trip this summer, we're taking a tour of Paris before we go back to the States. I laugh thinking what if I run into that dreamy tour guide I met 4 years ago? That would be seriously funny.

Third-Wave Senioritis

It's the end of the school day. There are word searches, boxes of markers, erasers and pencils scattered over each table. I'm exhausted. Thank God it's Friday.

I think I've been infected for the third time with senioritis. Of a different strain, of course.

The first time, I was a senior in high school. I was graduating, I had a full ride lined up for me at a major university, I was excited and ready to embark on a new chapter of life, but apprehensive at the same time. In those last days of high school life, I didn't feel like doing anything. I got lazy. It was almost all over . . .

Fast forward five years. I was a senior in college. I was graduating, I had a teaching job at a prestigious private school lined up for me back home, I was burned out from school and ready to embark on a new chapter of life, but apprehensive at the same time. In those last days of college life, I didn't feel like doing anything. I got lazy. It was almost all over . . .

Fast forward three years. I am a third-year elementary and middle school Spanish teacher. I'm resigining, I have a graduate teaching assistantship lined up for me at my undergraduate alma mater's biggest rival school, I'm excited and ready to go back to school, finish my Master's and embark on a new chapter of life, but apprehensive at the same time. In these last days of teacherly life, I don't feel like doing anything. I'm getting lazy and sluggish. It's getting harder to even get to work on time. My spark has definitely fizzled. My verve has undoubtedly waned. It's almost all over . . .

It's like déjà vu that self-aggrandizes each go round. The only conclusion that I can draw from this third wave of senioritis is that it's never over. Old chapters end and new ones begin. I'll never wake up in the epilogue.

Nothing's really different. It's just the same in a different way. There's no new thing under the sun. There's nothing depressing about that. It's just that I'm finally beginning to wake up from the irrational fantasy that one day I'll have arrived in some bright, transformed tomorrow. I know that sounds negative, but it's not. It's just reality. The postive thing is that I have the will to go on and strive for improvement. That I have the space and desire to change and grow. Even if I am a little lazier than usual between chapters.

I think I'm going to the park to soak up the sun. Maybe I'll even get some reading done.

Political Phone Call Satire

One of the great things about this blog is that it makes for an oh, so handy way to put off reading Iberia and boring as bricks Spanish Civilization textbooks.

Anyway, you've got to read this Slate piece on how phone calls from the Obama, Clinton and McCain campaigns might go. Hilarious.

Oh, and Obama's gaffe as "bittergate" is laughable. Sorry, but nothing beats Hillary's Bosnia-gate.

Plan-less

I was pondering today (something I tend to do when papers loom menacingly over me), and I realized that for the first time in my entire life, I have no long-term goals or plans.

I want it to sink in how utterly un-me that is.

I am Miss I-Have-My-Life-Planned-Out. I am a member of Checklist-Makers Anonymous. I always know what I'm going to do. And even if I don't have the details worked out, I usually have a ballpark figure of where I'm heading.

But this time, I have ni idea. You know how when people thought the Earth was flat and if they kept going, they'd fall off the edge into a bunch of monsters or whatever? Like, I feel like right now, I'm traveling on the flat Earth: 1. Go to graduate school. 2. Graduate. But then, 3. ??? (off the edge!)

I'm not afraid of monsters. In fact, I'm scaring myself with how unperturbed I am that I don't have a little mapped-out post-graduation life. I have six weeks left of teaching. Isn't that insane? Six weeks! How did that happen? It's ridiculous how fast this school year went by. And I know my year of graduate school is going to clip by at the same pace.

But like I said, I'm uncannily unperturbed. People constantly ask, "So, what are you going to do when you graduate?" And I just shrug my shoulders, goofily smile, and say, "I have no idea." Then I follow up with, "Well, whatever I decide to do, I'll get paid more," which in turn elicits polite laughter. Har, har, har.

Seriously, though, I wonder if I'm going to have this awakening and fly into panic mode. Or perhaps I'll acquire a comforting hunch that what really awaits me beyond the edge of my flat Earth aren't monsters at all.

Saturday

Saturday is the day I can wake up whenever I want.

I can cook myself a late breakfast (further honing my future breakfast-making skills).

I can assess the disaster that is my room, my kitchen and my hair, and can contemplate what I'm going to do about it over a mug of chai tea latte.

Saturday is my day to regroup, balance my checkbook, and buy stamps to send off hand-written cards. (I like my handwriting and I like sending cards.)

Saturday is when I can lounge on my pear green couch, laptop on my lap, to catch up on all the political banter and blog.

I can think about starting one of two papers. One is a five-pager and one is a ten-pager. I think I'll tackle the five-pager first. (Sigh.) I also have to at least start researching for the ten-pager. Saturday keeps flipping the switch on me. It starts out all shiny and golden with a velvet, soothing voice saying, You have all the time in the world. Enjoy me. But before I know it, Saturday turns into this drill sargeant barking, You have a million and one things to do! Get up off your derriere!

But, but Saturday . . . there's a lot I want to think about. I just want to go to the park and feed the ducks and stare out into space and wander around and have "realizations" about things that I can then blog about. But you have to watch your online class! You don't have time to indulge in spaciness. Okay, Saturday, you win. But I refuse to let you bully me out of a brunch of biscuits, bacon and eggs. Naw. Before "Saturday guilt" gets the best of me, let's recap:

1. One of my main girls is getting married and I'm the maid of honor. Right after that, I'm going to Spain. In other words, I'm really excited and I'm going to be hemorrhaging US dollars. (And with our wretched economy, it takes $1.58 of them to make up 1 euro. Which will bode very suckily for me while abroad.)

2. Oh, and right after that, I'm moving to Auburn. I really wish I had a rich uncle right about now.

3. I'm nearly 100% sure that my friend from Peru is going to get my position. She's taught a class of 1st graders and a class of 6th graders while being observed by administrators, and she did an awesome job.

4. My heart has been a lot less heavy as of late, and my tear ducts are really enjoying their time off.

5. I'm starting to look at the swirling tide of events ahead of me with anticipation instead of fear. Yes, I know that when August rolls around I'm going to have to hit the ground running. Yes, I know that I have zero idea of what I'm going to do after I graduate. But instead of feeling like, "God, what in the world is going on?!" I'm starting to feel like, "God, I can't wait to see where You're going to take me."

Unconventional/Tensions

There's something in me that won't let me start without a disclaimer. It's a bad habit. My friends hate it. But I just have to say that this post is not meant as "woe is me." It's not a lament at all. It's more of an observation and recognition of where I've come from, where I am, and who I am.

Sometimes it's exhilirating to be different. Sometimes it's maddening. Sometimes it's frustrating. Sometimes it's hilarious. Sometimes it just is.

Okay, what the heck am I talking about? I guess just me and my uncategorizable nature. There are things that set me apart. Then there are even things that set me apart within that set-apart-ness.

1. I grew up in different places. I was a military brat. I hate how after so much time, not having a hometown or roots to speak of still makes me slightly sad. I say Montgomery is my home since I've had a home base here for going on 14 years, but I'm still not a native. All I have to do is open my mouth to confirm my non-native status.

2. I am a minority. I mean, in the traditional, racial sense. And that's cool. I'm glad I am who I am, and I was raised to be proud of it. But I'm not "black" in the traditional (read: stereotypical) sense. I was not raised in a majority black environment. So, after moving back to the States and to the South, and being placed in situations where I was in a majority black environment, I was (and many times, still am) woefully out of place. (Opening up my mouth did me in then, too.) It's something that still bothers me in weird ways. Though I'm thankful for my diverse upbringing, I sometimes feel that I've missed something from not being enveloped in an expected identity. When you are a minority in the traditional, racial sense, certain things are expected of you from black and white alike, and I found myself cringing in the middle. It's something I quixotically hope to rescue my future children from.

3. My faith takes me completely off the map of convention. If you know anything about being Apostolic, you'd know that "conventional" and many times even "orthodox" is foreign. I don't complain. I am thankful God has led me where He has. My faith is strong, and I hold it dear. Being led by God requires being set apart, and that's fantastic. But what occasionally gnaws at me is the fact that within this circle of unconvention (within the huge globe of the conventional), I am unconventional. My political views are skewed. My goals are unorthodox. My existence as a single 26-year-old who hasn't "made a mistake" (and no judgment passed on those who have--God is merciful, and I'm certainly not perfect) puts me in a rarely visited niche, even within the church. Though I believe that God has placed me where I am for a reason and I have no desire to leave that place, I am not an amen corner. I am down with what I (and definitely the majority) consider the fundamentals, but I am not down with a few ideas that flutter about them (and that puts me in the minority). My oddity and discomfort within the conventional globe as well as my oddity and discomfort within the unconventional circle makes for some interesting, sometimes agonizing tension.

I'm always doing stuff no one else does. Memories of being a library aide. Wearing "glorified shorts" in PE. Being the only one to take 5th year Spanish in high school. Reading Billy Budd instead of The Things They Carried. Going to an academic magnet school and not taking any AP tests. Being the only double major in my Education cohort ("Well, it's different for Chantell, but for the rest of you . . . "). Staying home and watching Spanish gossip shows on Friday and Saturday nights with Blanca instead of barhopping in downtown Madrid. Driving 9 hours to St. Louis by myself for a conference no other Alabamian attends. Traveling to Minot, North Dakota for fun. Being a non-Latino black person who speaks Spanish. (The double takes I get while speaking it in public are hilarious.)

I know this sounds slightly melancholy, and it kind of is. Maybe bittersweet is a better word. But before I get too sentimental, I have to say that I know I'm not the only one who experiences this. I'm not some kind of anomaly. I know. But writing this has helped me recognize that my "tensions" make up who I am. I can't wish it to be otherwise without wishing not to be me. I can appreciate the joys and amusement of non-conformism, unconventionality (yes, I made that up) and uncategorizibility (that one, too) as well as bear the loneliness of it all. I know that my "tensions" are what make me happy to be alive and overjoyed to be where I am at times and so disillusioned at others that I feel my only recourse is to join the Peace Corps and spend the rest of my days relentlessly pouring myself out in a third world country to feel I belong. Tensions are a part of life. I suppose life would be kind of boring without them.

Grrrrrrrr . . .

Okay, who in their right mind would send me this link?

It's not thought provoking. It's an old, tired, and annoying argument. "You wanna be an educated, successful woman? Be my guest. But don't act surprised when you don't get a man. In fact, the more education you get, the less likely you'll be able to get one. You wanna intimidate them all away? Men want someone who doesn't make them feel insecure."

1. If the thought of being with me makes you feel insecure, I don't want you anyway. Go ahead and scurry away from the blinding beams of intimidation that emanate from me. You'd be doing us both a favor.

2. Trying to get a reaction out of a woman by presenting her with scary "statistics" and/or by wondering if (hoping that?) she'll see herself in it all does not endear you to her. It makes her grab a hammer and gives her all the strength she needs to wallop that nail down into the coffin of your delusions of grandeur.

3. My existence defies statistics. So does God. That's enough.

4. Cállate. (Sounds meaner in English.)

That is all.

Quote of the Day. Amen.

"Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."

Can I get an amen? Y'all don't hear me!

I Am Not Old! (I Don't Care What You Say)

Yes, today is my birthday. Yes, I am one year older. Yes, I'm inching towards "late twenties" at head spinning speed.

But let's get something straight. I am NOT old.

Don't give me that yang-yang claptrap. Naw. I said I am NOT old.

No, really. Give me a break. 26 is NOT old. I don't care what you say.

Okay, okay. If I lived in the Old Testament or something, yeah. I'd also probably have been married off to some old crusty guy and have a myriad of kids by now, too.

But, newsflash: I live in the 21st century. And in the 21st century, 26 is NOT old. In the 21st century, 26 is the age where you're in the midst of what has so conveniently been called the quarterlife crisis. 26 is the age where you are handlin' dat business while silently (or not so silently) wondering whether dat business you're handlin' is the business you were meant to handle. 26 is the age where you experience the ups and downs of apartment life (ups: freedom! downs: bills!). 26 is the age where you say, I've always wanted to go back to school full time and knock this Master's degree out, and you're resilient enough (and unburdened enough) to quit your job and do it. 26 is the age where you seize every opportunity to travel the world. 26 is the age where you face reality but aren't so tainted by world-weary cynicism that you don't still hope. 26 is the age where you finally realize what you want and aren't afraid to wait for it when going after it proves futile.

Por favor. 26 is NOT old. Like I said, I live in the 21st century, and in this unique moment in history, I am NOT old. And if you had a mug like mine that shines, "I'm still 19!" you would feel even more un-old.

Oh, uh-uh. Don't even think it. 26 is not even CLOSE to being old. I don't care what you say.

Night

The only Holocaust literature I've ever read would probably be classified as Young Adult. The Diary of Anne Frank, Number the Stars. I recently read Night by Elie Wiesel. It's a harrowing account of his time in Nazi concentration camps.

I guess maybe I fall into the trap of staying away from "depressing" stuff because I know how easily my mood is affected. I have to make sure I'm in a really good, resilient mood before I attempt anything by Haruki Murakami. I don't even listen to Coldplay anymore, despite how much I really love the band. I take advantage of every sunny day and brace myself for every rainy one. That's just me.

But sometimes we have to face the reality and even the horror of things because it is truth. We have to allow ourselves to come to terms with evil. Maybe we have to force ourselves to see how low humanity can go.

Something that scares me about being human (as if I could be anything else) is the recognition that we all have the capacity to commit atrocities. It's so easy to think, especially when you have made the choice to resist evil and surround yourself with positive, godly examples, that you are above sinking so low. But the fact is that we are all made of the same stuff. Given the right cocktail of circumstances, victim or victimizer, how can you say how you would react? How could you say that you'd never throw another human being into an incinerator if you were made to believe that you were superior and that you were completely justified in doing so? How could you say that you'd never kill another human being over a piece of bread if you were nothing more than a starving shell of what you used to be and your only impulse was the basic will to survive? How could you say that your faith would stay intact despite bombardment with demoralizing and dehumanizing images and situations: being jam packed into train cars without room to move or breathe, seeing babies thrown into fire pits, smelling the stench of burning human flesh, living in constant fear and being stripped of everything you love and hope for?

On the flip side, once seeing examples of the horror that humanity is capable is creating, in the end, I realize that even though I can't do anything about history, I still have a choice now. I can choose to rise above evil. I can choose not to sit idly by when I see evil being committed. I can do everything in my power to never allow the Holocaust to ever happen again.

I Want Laser Resurfacing Surgery

I can't believe I'm writing about this, but I must because it's about something that has bothered me for a long time.

From the time I was about 14 till I was a sophomore in college I had a horrendous and relentless struggle with acne. (It metamorphosed into inconceivably severe acne once I entered college.) The dermatologist prescribed everything under the sun. Seriously, if I were ever on a game show and one of the question categories were "Acne Medications" I could rack up some serious points. I finally arrived at the drug of last resort, the super-strong, use-only-if-all-options-have-been-exhausted, Accutane.

If you've ever read anything about it, you'd know it is not some stuff you mess with. Because there is a slight chance Accutane can mess up your liver, I had to get blood work done every month to make sure my whatever-it-is-that-can-mess-up-your-liver levels were normal. Since I'm female, I also had to take a pregnancy test every month because if a fetus were to ingest Accutane, it would turn into an awful-looking creature with an enlarged, misshapen head along with various and sundry other deformities. (They included a little drawing of one in the little pamphlet that accompanied each package to discourage the Accutane-dependent from putting themselves at risk to turn up preggers.) All of that to say that you have to be pretty badly off before a dermatologist recommends Accutane.

They say it's a wonder drug. And it pretty much was. They also say that once a round of it has been completed, 75% of people never have problems with acne ever again. I was one of the 25% that had to take another round of it to exorcise the acne demon from my pores once and for all.

Needless to say, the whole ordeal, from initial acne consumption to eventual Accutane cleansing, left my self-esteem in shreds. I must admit that I am still hyper-sensitive about my complexion, even though it looks better than it ever has post-treatment. Though I am so thankful that I don't suffer from it as I did before, here's my problem: The emotional scars left behind aren't noticeable, but the physical ones are.

Again, I know I have a lot to be thankful for. There are no huge, gaping holes, no deep, pitted craters. I know. But like I said, what is there is noticeable. And as much as I've tried to shrug it off and say, "Oh, well, I'll never have perfect skin, so I just have to live with it," something just won't let me leave it at that.

I have done a little bit of research into cosmetic procedures to smooth out scars. There's dermabrasion, microdermabrasion, chemical peels and laser resurfacing. One problem is that all of these procedures have additional risks for people like me who were born with tans (as I jokingly tell students of mine who moan, "Omigawd, I'm so pale! I'm, like, SO going to the tanning bed!"). Laser resurfacing seems to be the most successful with what I want done, and there are even lasers that can be used on all skin types. The key is to find a doctor who is experienced in working with ethnic skin.

Another big problem is that most of this stuff is crazily expensive, and homegirl ain't rich. In fact, I'm about to become really poor since I'm going back to school full-time in the Fall. This is awful, but sometimes I think I won't be completely happy with myself until I can somehow do whatever I can to remedy this lingering thing that has always bothered me. So, I'll either somehow strike it rich and go for it, or continue to go with the less expensive option of sucking it up.

The End of the Guy 2 Chronicles

Due to circumstances too mortifying to even begin to recount, there will be absolutely no more Guy 2 musings on this blog. I'm tempted to go as far as to delete everything on here I've written that has anything even remotely to do with Guy 2 (or any of his previous incarnations, which shall remain un-divulged), but, in the end, I look at it as, hey, what's done is done. Trying to artificially (and tardily) undo it would be utterly inauthentic. Somehow not true to myself. The reality is that once it's out there, it's out there, and no matter how much you'd like to, you cannot take it back.

Sometimes me forgets that this is the WORLD WIDE WEB we're dealing with here, baby. If you dish it out, you've got to be able to take it.