I'm Far Too Sexy

I don't put much effort into my appearance. Every six weeks or so I get a buzz haircut. During weeks three through six of a haircut interval, my hair gets scraggly and starts to hang over my ears. My Ladyfriend starts to tell me around week four that I desperately need to get my hairs cut. I ignore her requests because I've already duped her into marrying me, ugly hair and all. Not only do I have the thinning hair of a meth addict, but I'm also balding. In fact, the whole reason I turned to buzz haircuts back in the day was a form of preventive maintenance to the balding that is my family's curse. Every time I shave my head, the widow's peak grows a little bit pointier and the bare white spaces above my temples become a little bit more prevalent.

To complement my hair, I have slightly uneven sideburns that expand a wee bit farther every time I shave (which I'm proud to report, is almost every day now!). I could even out my sideburns; I could keep them at a respectable earlobe length. I could do lots of things, but since the widow's peak on the top of my head will eventually become a small tuft of hair, I want to make sure to keep my sideburn hair cuticles well trained for growth. If nothing else, I want to be that bald guy with nothing but a bad shave and two sideburns. You know the guy. If you don't know the guy, I'd recommend visiting the QC, he's at the mall all the time. I guess it beats having to pay your own heating bills.

My hair is but one part of the sexiness I excrete. Since my hobbies are movies, books, videogames, TV, Internet, writing, pro-baseball watching, and eating greasy food at overpriced restaurants with no outdoor patios, I don't get much sun. In fact, my skin is one shade of pale away from me looking like one of the vampire zombies from I Am Legend. When I do get sun, my ever expanding baldness gets burned first and worst. The top of my head becomes a one inch cherry red band. It wouldn't surprise me if horns popped out. Actually, I take that back, it would surprise me if horns popped out. I would think that would surprise just about anyone.

On my face is a rather unspectacular nose; gorgeous, penetrating brown eyes; and a mouth filled with crooked teeth. I probably should have obtained braces in fourth grade along with the rest of my grade. Maybe My Mother didn't want to give me braces in an attempt to give the fat kid with a mullet who read books at recess and won all the math competitions some sort of chance with the ladies. Alas, having read Michael Crichton by the fifth grade didn't create many "behind the bushes" opportunity. In fact, it created zero. Except for when I played Jurassic Park by myself. I liked to pretend I was the Grandpa.

Back to my teeth. I have fangs. Seriously. Combine this with the facts I feel pain in the sun, I like my hamburgers rare, and I can shape-shift into a bat, I think I'm a vampire. In fact, if you look at my recently updated QC driver's license, I would describe my appearance as a pedophiliac Romney vampire.

The fangs aren't the only part of my teeth that don't make any sense. My top two teeth arch ever so lightly towards each other that a small, almost unnoticeable gap exists. This gap has done wonders for me over the years. It has become my mouth's refrigerator. If I'm ever eating an extra garlicky dish, I can count on my teeth to hold a spare piece of garlic (usually large) that will dislodge later while I'm eating some sort of fruit candy or mint gum. My beautiful pale face then makes a bitter wince face. The one that actually could kill someone if gazed upon for too long.

Below my head is my body. I'm no freak. I've mentioned in previous blogs that my weight has always fluctuated. Always. I'm generally within a 50 pound window: 190 to 240. 240 is when little things start to become difficult, like eating a third pack of Skittles during a day or picking the Butterfinger out of my criss-crossed teeth. I then go on a crash diet and exercise daily. Once I start to fit into my skinny jeans, I realize exercise is entirely too much work and give it up for candy and ass-sitting. It's a vicious cycle.

Unfortunately, this recent spell of weight gaining has taught me some uncomfortable lessons about aging. In the past, when I'd put on weight, I'd expand rather evenly. Picture someone pumping me up like a balloon, I'd get gradually bigger everywhere (except for the penie; that got swallowed by overlapping skin). Now all the weight starts and stops right on my belly. I'm 20 pounds lighter than my heavy weight, but none of my damn pants fit like they should because every piece of food I've eaten in the last two months has lodged itself in a protective tire around my midsection.

Because none of my pants fit like I want, I usually wear one of the two pairs of jeans that don't crush Mr. Magic and also allow for me to take steps without wanting to cry. I try to cover the bulge of my stomach with a hooded sweatshirt, though the belly protrudes far enough my favorite hooded sweatshirts aren't as baggy as they once were.

As for the rest of my frame, I have standard arms and legs with little to no lean muscle on them. I keep it this way in case my soccer team and I ever crash on a mountain. No one wants to eat the fat guy; there is not enough meat on his bones, and they want to sleep next to him for warmth. So while I don't get second looks walking down the QC mall nowadays (this isn't entirely true; most QCians look at me with awe, whispering to their friends: "he look like he got himself a job, what's he doin' at he mall?"), if I ever crash on a mountain with a soccer team and let's say, a plane of models. In fact, let's say my soccer team's plane crashed into the model's plane atop a cold but not unbearable mountain. I'll be eating myself a delicious leg of Paulo while cuddling up to Tina, Gina, and Fayina all at once. In certain circumstances, it pays to be me.