Wow, No Thank You - Samantha Irby Page 0,50
at the little speckles of nose junk dotting a bright white pore strip. It helps to get the pores cleaned out, you see, because your nose is supposed to be smooth and matte, except at the tip, which should sparkle because that makes you look young.
Do you think about ear upkeep? I used to hang out with this dude who got the insides of his ears waxed, which was W I L D because we weren’t even thirty at the time, and just imagine what his senior citizenry is going to look like! He was a fucking teen wolf with tufts sprouting from his ears, which I thought was kind of sexy, but it wasn’t my body. Anyway, I produce a lot of earwax, and every time I go to my nurse practitioner, I ask him to look inside my ears. He does and says it’s fine, even the times they feel pretty itchy and sticky. Honestly, something could have crawled in and died in there, but I never push the issue because (1) TRULY, what is more disgusting than talking to another person about your “excessive wax,” but also (2) I feel like every medical professional I talk to is two degrees from saying “you’re too fat” no matter what you’ve made an appointment for them to check. I don’t know the correlation between gummy ears and weight, but if you give a doctor enough latitude, they will find one.
I do not have all my teeth. There is so much shit you have to do for your mouth alone that I refuse to believe anyone I’ve ever met is doing all of it. You’re supposed to have: clean, straight teeth; healthy gums; a vibrant pink tongue; fresh breath. I have: zero things on that list. Teeth are impossible because you literally have to (1) have good genes or (2) BE RICH to have good ones, and even if you’re blessed with both, it doesn’t always work all the way out for you. I am the kind of person who deftly weaves 30 Rock quotes into my everyday lexicon, and my favorite among them is when Liz says to Tracy, “How do you know I’m not rich?” and Tracy replies, matter-of-factly, “YOUR TEETH.”
Whenever people accuse me of having money I am quick to point them to the damp, pulpy hole where the first premolar on my upper right jaw used to be or to my gappy front teeth and pronounced overbite. Baby, if I was rich, I would have all my rotted stump teeth cut from my skull and replaced with piano keys. I am obsessed with rich people who don’t fix their crowded, overlapping teeth, because my teeth have always been a dead giveaway that I have nothing and came from even less. Just imagine the wealth and power you’d need to feel free enough to keep your brown teeth despite being able to afford an in-home orthodontist. It’s staggering.
Who has time to take care of their teeth? I’m supposed to brush for two minutes, then floss, then rinse, then swish with Listerine for a full sixty seconds even though it makes my sinuses burn and my eyes water, and occasionally do a whitening strip? Come on. I’m not flossing because I will never floss, Listerine is painful, and two minutes is a very long time. I got this Aesop mouthwash that feels like it’s doing something to my neglected, gingivitis-ravaged gumline every time I swish it around, so that’s something. That I can do.
At last count, I had no fewer than forty-two lip balms between my bedside table, tote bag, office, and car, and for what?
Uncreased, unlined foreheads and cheeks are a prerequisite for tricking people into believing you have a good life. But life is fucking stressful and too goddamn long, and I am afraid to get needles in my face, because I know me, and I know that the minute I make some drastic alteration to my face, my hands and neck and other dead-giveaway parts are going to shrivel up like a raisin and I’m going to be the only shiny, moon-faced bitch out here still looking old because the rest of her body immediately started running away from her doctored face.
Rarely do I feel myself channeling either of my old, country-ass