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>> "Carmex Rocks My World" <<
*or*
>> Confessions of a Hardcore, Down & Out, Gutter-Dwellin' Addict <<
by -> MoonBagel
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I have a dirty little secret. My family and friends have their
suspicions, I'm sure, but they dare not confront me with their accusations
and tears and hurt.
I have it completely under control. Really. I just don't want to
quit -- I like it. And how could I not? The euphoric bliss as my body
absorbs the sweet balm...
I used to use it occasionally. Maybe during the cold, dry, lonely
winter months when I needed to cling to something tangible instead of
maddening abstract thoughts about God and the universe and my purpose, if
any of those really existed outside of my confused, lost adolescent cranium.
Philosophical musings contented me in the warmer seasons -- they'd float
about in front of my face and behind my head and inside of it, too --
sometimes they would bump and merge. Oftentimes the bubbles would just
burst.
In the winter I could ski, sled, raise general hell -- but I was
always yearning for something I could keep in my pocket or hold in my hand.
Those outdoor activities were maddening for lack of a suitable talisman.
Along came my satori.
I was 14 years old, out raising some of that crazy middle school
hell. I could take it no longer -- my lips were cracked and
uncharacteristically crimson, and I could bear not another minute without
that mystical healing agent I sensed was in close proximity.
"I am chapped! I must have a balm!" I howled, startling cats and
younger siblings and elderly passersby. They assumed it was just my lips
that were chapped, but this sensation was so much more profound than that.
It reached my soul.
"Shut up -- use my Carmex."
And thus ends my search, and begins my gradual downfall. Those first
weeks I would be satisfied merely having my little yellow-capped talisman
close at hand, in case of emergencies. I would smooth a thin,
barely-perceivable layer over my lips, and instantly be soothed for days. I
was strong.
There were no suspicions -- there was no problem. There isn't any
real problem now. "My, you have moist, un-chapped lips!" was the only
comment I heard regarding my special friend.
Now I hear snickering as I pass acquaintances and former friends on
the street. I try to tell myself that they're merely envious, but the world
comes crashing down when I try to use a straw or wipe my mouth with a
napkin. My lips slip off the straws; there are frighteningly obvious
grease-stains on the napkins. My chin is constantly covered in throbbing
pimples, my pores being permanently clogged by excess Carmex.
To think once a week used to be enough... I should "Huzzah!" now if I
make it through two hours.
I don't have a problem, though. It's all under control. I could
stop any minute, if I wanted to, but I like it this way -- I'm warm and
moist and never chapped. I haven't had a cold sore in over three years.
I bow to thee, Menthol, and to thee, Camphor and Alum, and Salicylic
Acid, Phenol, Fragrance (O mighty Fragrance!), Lanolin, Cocoa Butter, and
Wax base, in turn.
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* (c) HoE publications. HoE #143 -- written by MoonBagel -- 12/9/97 *