I went to my Botox appointment yesterday during my menial lunch hour, and of course the Botox lady was running late so I knew I’d be getting back to work late, further irritating my already irritable boss. It also meant she didn’t have enough time to numb my face properly, so when she came at me with the syringe, it felt like bees were stinging my face. I wanted to slap her but it was all for a good cause, so I really couldn’t.
Yes, yes, yes… I get Botox and I’m not afraid to admit it. I don’t want that frown line that was developing between my eyes to deepen, which, by the way, was brought on by people… and their… habits. It’s an expensive process wiping away all emotion from one’s face using Botox, but there’s no better alternative; I’ve tried apathy, disdain and cynicism but none of those work as well.
You don’t get charged per visit for this treatment either, the way they charge you is per “unit”. A unit is basically a measurement the developers of Botox came up with of how much they should inject into your face. A unit sounds so reasonable, until you get the bill and see you needed a lot of fucking units.
There’s gotta be varying levels of freshness of this product too. This is only the second time I’ve had it administered, and the first time it took about three days to fully freeze my face, but this time, it only took a day and feels much stronger. I noticed my Botox lady opened up a brand new package of the stuff this time, so maybe they kind of ease you into it your first time and that way, you don’t get scared off because your face no longer moves the way it normally does. Anyway, no one even noticed I had anything done or that the upper portion of my face was no longer moving, which tells me that cynicism has been my go-to expression for longer than I thought.
It’s slightly ironic that I spent so much money getting this procedure done and I’m not even getting any action or have any prospects… but maybe that’s the whole idea; have your face frozen, get a guy! I’m not entirely convinced men would be as concerned about a woman’s facial features as they are about her other features though… like, for instance, her tits. Have you ever timed how long it took for a man you just met to move his eyes from looking directly into yours, downwards to your tits?
No, I won’t be doing any procedures to my tits. The thought of an icy steel blade cutting into that delicate flesh, severing nerves, and being adjusted into an unnatural position, just so I can live up to someone else’s idea of what they should look like… is not gonna happen. Not that I resemble a grandma or anything, sheesh! It’s just that they’re not as… well, let’s just say I’m not twenty anymore.
Why am I even justifying myself?
Jesus, when I think about this shit, I just get irritated and wonder why I want a man anyway if they’re so friggin’ shallow and rude. Then something happens, like the plumbing gets backed up, or no one’s around to take the trash out, or I need air in my tires… all things I am perfectly capable of doing on my own, but is so much better to have a man around to do them, and I go back to wanting one again. I guess men are good for some things. Plus, you know, the sex!
I wonder if the guy would even know I’m having a good time though, since my face always just reads “Cynic”?