|"The schnazzberries taste like schnazzberries."|
I eat innocent meat
The housewife I will beat
The pro-life I will kill
What you won't do I will
I bash myself to sleep
What you sow I will reap
I scar myself you see
I wish I wasn't me
Pseudo-morals work real well
On the talk shows for the weak
But your selective judgements
And goodguy badges
Don't mean a fuck to me
I throw a little fit
I slit my teenage wrist
The most that I can learn
Is in records that you burn
Get your gunn
Get your gunn
~ Marilyn Manson
So, I haven’t been getting the warmest of receptions to my Marilyn Manson contact lenses. At ALL.
I mean, I get it, they’re weird. Duh. I didn’t set out to emulate Marilyn Manson’s eyes because he’s soft and feminine and brings all the boys to his yard. I wanted his eyes because they are creepy and weird and tell strangers, “Piss off and leave me alone.”
The key word here, though, is strangers.
But when even my friends and family started to break eye contact with me and give me a wide berth, I knew something drastic needed to be done.
I figured, it’s all in the presentation, innit? The explanation, the reasons why.
When my friends would ask, “What the hell’s wrong with your eyes?!”, I believe my mistake lay in the telling of the truth:
“Nothing. They’re just contacts.”
I might as well just say, “Nothing. I just thought I’d single myself out as a self-cutting member of the walking dead.”
People need a reason they can get behind, I guess.
And apparently, that ain’t one of ‘em.
And so, in a moment of frustration yesterday, I decided to give the masses what they wanted.
“Jesus Christ, Kage, what’s wrong with your eyes?” asked my friend Dee, as we met up for lunch in a posh restaurant yesterday afternoon.
All right, that’s it, I decided. Enough.
“Shhh!” I hissed. “Keep your voice down.” I gave a quick, covert glance around the restaurant, then motioned at her chair. “Sit down, Dee. I need to tell you something.”
She hesitated, her ass hovering above her chair. “What is it?” she whispered.
I looked over both shoulders, to make sure no one could hear us, then leaned in dramatically. “My eyes,” I said softly.
Her own eyes widened. “What?”
“I have an eye disease,” I sighed, looking forlornly into my intertwined fingers, which I had propped up on the table in front of me.
“What kind of eye disease?" she breathed.
“It’s called...um, Opto-albino-ritis," I said. "It’s like the Michael Jackson disease, but for your eyes.”
“No. Fucking. Way,” she said, and had the good grace to look a bit suspicious.
“It’s true,” I said defensively. “You’ve seen albinos, right?” I said, and she nodded. “And how creepy and light their eyes are?” She nodded again. “Well, that’s happening to me.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Doesn't that mean your skin and hair are gonna lose all their pigment too?”
Fuck, I don’t know, I thought desperately.
“Yes,” I said sadly, and shook my head. “Just like Michael Jackson. It started in his eyes, too, then spread like wildfire. Unstoppable.”
“Wow,” she said, clearly impressed.
“Yeah. So! What should we eat?” I said, and opened my menu. Time to change the subject.
I really should have done a little research before I spewed that one forth, but whatever. At least she didn’t bug me about my contacts again. Though I have a feeling that at any moment now, the doorbell might ring with a Get Better Soon bouquet from Dee.
Though, of course, as soon as she reads this post, I’m dead in the fucking water.
Haha! Michael Jackson disease for your eyes.
Dee. You ass ;)
I still loves ya, though.
Please don't hurt me.