I smear raw honey on my face to give myself an apian glow.
I wash the honey off after my cheeks feel Chernobyl.
Royal jelly, and acne, are my fountains of youth-in-decline.
I was wandering flourescent-lit Holiday Inn halls minutes ago, hugging a cardboard box filled with processed foods, my honey mask thickly glistening. I had just gone downstairs, to our parked Honda, to fetch sustenance for TJ, who is on shis rag. Emerging from the elevator, onto the third floor, I knew I had forgotten our room number.
I cannot be trusted with numbers. Verbally feed me numbers and my brain bakes a whoopee pi.
307? 321? Because 3 times 7 is 21. 21 has a 2 and a 1. Which yields 3. ARE WE IN ROOM 3? ARE WE ON THE FIRST FLOOR?
This is what whoops in the pi.
I stood at doors whose numbers baffled me. I crept, listening for TJ.
I started swiping my key card through each black security taco, hoping no angry pimp would exit and whack me.
No locks turned for my card.
I wandered to the elevator and got inside, where there was a man.
Unfortunately, he was friendly.
“How’s it going?”
“I forgot what room I’m in.” He was of substantial size. He eyeballed my Pringles. “And I’m wearing honey on my face.”
“Well, at least when you find you where you’re supposed to be, you’ll feel better.” He punched my arm. “I try to look on the bright side!” He chuckled and squeezed my arm. Mirrors walled the elevator, and I saw myself smiling at my companion. Honey was gluing my eyelashes.
I followed the optimist out of the elevator, down to the lobby, back to the scar-faced concierge.
“Hi,” I interrupted. He was visiting with a friend who stared knowingly at my glisten. It dripped in whitish-yellow globules from my nose’s tip. I looked like a bukkakke enthusiast and given that I was at the Holiday Inn, it was not an unlikely possibility. I wanted to blurt, “It’s honey!” and explain to the men that I was just self-indulgent, a woman interested in looking presentable, but I felt my declaration might make me look weirder. The concierge, after appraising us when we’d checked in, had put us in a segregated suite.
“I don’t know what room I’m in,” I confessed.
Demonstrating mad confidence in his numeric skills, the concierge didn’t glance at his computer. “You”re in 307.”
“Are you sure? Cause I‘m not sure.”
I glanced at the concierge’s homeslice. Above his ball cap, the word bukkakke was infinitely scrolling.
“Thanks.” I turned and left and made it back to Room 307.
My face is still burning.
Because it takes a village to teach me a number, I would like to extend a chance for cooperative learning to my reader.
According to the internet, my celebrity lookalike is Kelsey Grammar.
If you disagree with the internet, post who you think my celebrity, or pseudo-celebrity lookalike is to win a free copy of my pamphlet/joke book Wish You Were Me.
I invite comparisons of all genders, species, intergalactic provenance, and fantasias. If you win my pamphlet, you will get to read stuff like this:
Things That Turn Better When You Add A –ling
Pets I’d like to own
Alopaca (that’s an alpaca with alopecia)
The thing Gregor Samsa turned into when he stopped being human
In the comments section of lesbrain, leave your comparison/s, and I’ll select the worst of the best and announce the winner during a later post. If you already have a copy of Wish You Were Me, you can get a second one to stuff in your time capsule, and if that’s not your poison, you can opt for the other prize, which is an invisible sack of air I telepathically send to you in your dreams.
This competition may not be fair. I am not above posting in my own comments section. In high school, I was the girl who signed her own yearbook.
Oh my god, I’m totally glad I met you in P.E. You’re so fast. Have a sweet summer. See ya next year! (pic of two hearts beating as one)
P.S. If you don’t know how I look, read the other posts. The most accurate image of me is one where I am fanning my turkey tail.