#58 Jesus by Brand New

Today I am going to the doctor’s again. I don’t mean again as if I’ve been going to the doctor’s a lot recently, in fact I haven’t been to the doctor’s in what is long enough to where I have no idea when I last went to the Doctor’s. It hasn’t been years or anything, but generally I don’t like visiting the Doctor’s even if I probably should, which is lucky for them because I have free health insurance. Well I guess it’s not necessarily good for them, but rather whoever the hell pays my medical bills. Ah, it’s CareOregon. I remember now because conveniently I received some kind of document from them in the mail yesterday and it’s sitting here in front of me.

Oh, it’s a newsletter. I get these things like once a month and never read them, but I had no idea they were newsletters. Being from my insurance provider I figured it couldn’t be anything important, and even though I say that in jest it turns out it’s not anything important. Ah, but I spoke too soon, because clearly “Karaoke with member DeWitt Rhodes” is very important.

I’ve had this ongoing thing with my lips for about four years now. It gets really bad during the winter. They crack and I can’t wash my face without it burning all around my lips. It’s truly horrible. If I couldn’t masturbate in the shower I wouldn’t be able to survive. Aside from the pain, in fact I argue even a bigger deal than the pain, is that about 24 days out of every month I have this unappealing red rash around my lips. I already have enough trouble getting laid, so it doesn’t help when my mouth looks like I just ate out a chick with Gonorrhea – to be honest I have no idea what a vagina with Gonorrhea looks like, and to be even more honest I really don’t want to find out.

I can hardly tell them apart

I don’t really care about not getting laid, but as a person with extremely low self confidence already it doesn’t help having red marks around my lips that are exaggerated when I layer my lips in this God damn healing ointment the doctor told me to use that doesn’t fucking work. And how do I know it doesn’t work? Because I’ve been using it for the past two fucking years and every time I put it on I have to douse my face in it again five God damn seconds later. So this time when I see the doctor I’m going to tell him enough with the bullshit ointment I can buy in any regular stores, I want some black market shit that will once and for all put an end to this pain I deal with 15 hours a day for 295 days out of the year. I don’t care if I have to rip off my lips and have new ones surgically attached. In fact I’d prefer to go with a pair reminiscent of Angelina Jolie’s. And I don’t care if I look like the fucking Octomom when it’s done, I just want the pain gone.

Let’s get back to the appearance aspect. I know it may seem like I don’t care about appearance because I never comb my hair, my favorite shirt is tie-dye with some weird painting on the front of it, and my balls spend 90% of their time in sweat pants, but I assure you that I am obsessed with my appearance. I work out a few times a week just so I can eat like crap every day of the week and still be relatively in shape. I exclusively wear polyester boxers because when striping down to my boxers at parties they received compliments – that’s only half true, I almost never wear polyester undergarments anymore. I don’t wear flip flops because I have exceedingly ugly toes. So see, I care about my appearance a lot.

But the pain, oh the pain, it kills me. Not literally of course, but metaphorically it kills me, you know, in a literal sense though. I don’t ever want to leave my house because I fear being away from the jar of assuredly addictive healing ointment that my lips can’t go more than a minute without. I don’t want to get a job because I can’t trust my lips to stay out of pain long enough through the day to get me through the job without ripping my face off, which isn’t going to be very pleasant to the costumers, assuming I’d work with costumers, which I will assume because I’m going to assume I’d be working the cash register at Taco Bell, which is probably assuming too much of myself. I don’t even want to write because the pain takes away from my focus. I just want to lie in a bed of that crappy healing ointment and slowly drown in it until I die and wake up in heaven where my soul takes the form of a huge pair of perfectly unchapped, unrashed, uncracked, lips.

So what does any of this have to do with the song? Well as much as I hate God, and the idea of God, and the idea of giving my life to something with so many horribly unexplained ideas, I would get down on my knees right now, give up all my money, and pray to God, Jesus, or whatever sick fuck hybrid of God and Jesus he’d like, and swear my life to his devotion if I could just have my old amazingly unpainful lips back….okay, that’s a lie. But I’d pretend to believe in God if that would help.


About Danniel

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