Flat Heads Belong Only on Screwdrivers

You know what sucks worse than that little minion “running” North Korea? Having a flat head. Apparently, when I was a baby, my mother never turned my ass over, so practically my whole pre-ambulatory life, I lay on my back in my crib or in this crank-up baby swing that had a seat made of turquoise canvas.

According to a news report I recently read, I’m not the only one whose caretakers just left them endlessly lying there while their heads flattened out. The article, entitled, “Nearly half of babies have flat spots, study finds,” does not make me feel any fucking better to know that I’m not alone. Fifty percent of the population don’t have flat heads, and those are the successful people.  You don’t see any runway models who spin around and make the crowd gasp because the backs of their heads align perfectly with their necks. Like mine.

And although Donald Trump has gasp-worthy hair and it SEEMS like part of his brains might be missing, when he turns to the side, he doesn’t look like somebody lopped off the back hemisphere of his skull. Like me.

The Donald

I can’t wear a hat because, in profile, I look like a deck-post. I can’t rock a high ponytail like Jennifer-freaking-Aniston. And when I lie on one of those neck-support pillows that’s supposed to fit snugly in the hollow between the bottom of your skull and your shoulders, I look like someone’s preparing me for CPR.

Even though the study in the article I’ve mentioned was conducted on two-month-old Canadian babies—and who the hell knows what kind of babies they have in a place where there is no “ow” sound—there is at least one American company that manufactures orthotic helmets to reshape a baby’s head before it hardens permanently into the shape of the capital letter D. Like mine.

Unfortunately, the helmets cost thousands of bucks and make your family look like child abusers or hockey freaks. Equally bad, IMHO.

The cheaper option is just to turn the damn baby. I mean, what are you doing that you can’t rotate the baby every hour or so? Even the laziest sumbitches can get up off the couch at the end of every episode of This is Us or Fleabag or Game of Thrones and turn. The. Baby.

The Canadian study showed that when their flat heads were not caught in time, the babies’ facial features were also affected. Great! You lazy asses are creating children who are all chainsaw accident in the back and Quasimodo in the front. I hope you are proud. Your children will suffer a lifetime of mediocrity, a hand-to-mouth existence, the failure of all of their hopes and dreams, and no cute hats in their futures.

I now know exactly why I have had limited success and why I have a face that incited my grandmother to say things like, “You’re pretty to me.” Flat head. Thanks. When my grandmother was teaching her own daughter—my mother—all those parenting skills, she might have spent a little less time on left-handed compliments and more time on turning the flat-headed baby.

You Know What Sucks? LipoSUCtion.

I admit it. I’ve had liposuction. It hurt like a mother, but it did do exactly what the doctor claimed it would. It “reshaped” my trouble areas. The only thing is that the new shape is more Quasimodo than Barbie. Never did the physician tell me that once I had fat sucked out of my squarish hips and my inner thighs—which I always wanted to have a space between while my feet were together the way cheerleader legs have—that fat cells would sprout up in places I’d never had them before.

In case you’re not familiar, here’s how liposuction works in twenty easy steps:

1.)    Anesthesia is administered, but apparently it is only the “twilight” kind which doesn’t deaden a goddamned thing but makes you “forget” the pain. My ass.

2.)    Incisions are made in areas near the suction sites. The surgeon skillfully slices your tender flesh open with something mother-fucking sharp. I remember thinking, “That son-of-a-bitch is using something mother-fucking sharp to slice the tender flesh of my…private area, which I clearly did not give permission for him to do.” What I actually said was, “Ouch. Ouch. Ouch,” while some gloved hand repeatedly slapped mine away.

3.)    A very long, straw-like canula (from the Latin word for reed because the canula is hollow and large like a reed instrument such as a fucking clarinet), is threaded into the incision and down to the suction site where it is then jammed over and over and over into tender flesh to hack away large portions of fat-cell-filled tissue and to suck them out. The contents are vacuumed into an extra-extra-large Ziplock bag. The canula is mother-fucking sharp.

4.)    There is no attempt at actual cosmetic shaping because the surgeon is too busy viciously slashing as if he is angry with the fat or with you or with all of humanity.

5.)    Once the carnage is over, the incision sites are stitched, and compression garments are heaved up over your vacuumed areas.

6.)    You are sent home high on some drug, your incisions leaking excess saline tinged with your blood, which you deserve to have stain and ruin the car’s upholstery if you forgot to bring old towels.

7.)    You are in sweaty delirium and scathing pain for days and days until you go back to the doctor to have him take out your stitches, which is akin to having some son-of-a-bitch stick needles into your inflamed bruises and then rip them out really fast.

8.)    You continue to wear the compression garments for several weeks, and you may or may not get used to peeing through the cut-out hole in the girdle.

9.)    Finally, the day comes to remove all the bandaging and to view the new you.

10.)  There is lots and lots of cussing.

11.)  You are all lumpy and green and yellow and not at all svelte like those brochure thighs in the waiting room.

12.)  You wait patiently for years for the brochure thighs, which never materialize.

13.)  Meanwhile, your sides grow considerable handholds, which flop over the elastic waistbands you now are forced to wear.

14.)  Your upper back has folds.

15.)  Your upper gut looks like it’s expecting. Triplets.

16.)   No clothes of any kind ever fit correctly again.

17.)  You no longer fit into the “apple” or the “pear” category. You are one of those bumpy, misshapen gourds that comes out only at Halloween.

18.)  You never wear a swimsuit to the beach for the rest of your life without someone calling for a marine rescue.

19.)  There is still no space between your thighs when your feet are together.

20.)  The only thing that sucks more than liposuction is that you have no one but your own sorry fat ass to blame.