It wouldn't officially be summer until some idiot says, "Hey, what's that on your arm?"
I have psoriasis.
I’ve had it since I was little, and when I was an insecure middle schooler, I tried, literally, everything to get rid of it. The problem? You can’t get rid of it. You can control it, but it’ll never actually go away. What triggers it? STRESS. Obviously, since I’m someone who is stressed out 95% of the time, I am the perfect person for this disorder.
So what do I do to control it? I moisturize a lot, occasionally sit in a bathtub full of salt water, and go tanning because UV rays are supposed to help. But for the most part, my attitude towards it is basically indifference, because at some point, you accept that you are going to be plagued with this forever and you just deal with it. What am I going to do? Wear a burka? Only wear long sleeves even though spending the summer in New York is like hanging out on the surface of the motherfucking sun?
In terms of diseases and disorders, I’m kind of okay if I get through life with only this one. At its worst, it’s just awkward. If you Google it, you’ll see extreme examples of it, which I don’t really have. It’s on my arms and legs, and most of the time, I don’t think it’s really noticeable. That is, until some douchebag brings it up.
It is always, always, ALWAYS the same question:
“What happened to your arm? Is it a rash?”
Okay, first of all, if I had a rash, even a temporary one, would I want to tell you about it? Who the fuck is like, “Yeah, man, let me tell you about this crazy rash I have!”
News flash: a rash is awkward. A chronic skin disorder is worse, and now you’re forcing me to tell you about it.
It’s fine that you noticed it. You have eyes—congrats! But honestly, why do you have to blow up my spot? It’s rude, plain and simple.
Am I all like, “Yo, what’s that crazy huge thing on your face?” and force you to say, “Oh, it’s my giant, unattractive nose.” Do I say, “Hey, what’s that crazy chair with wheels you’re sitting in?” and force you to say, “Uh, I’m in a wheelchair because I’m paralyzed from the waist down.” Do I come at you with, “What’s that ugly drapey fabric you’ve got all over your body?” and force you to say, “This a dress I just bought.”
It’s the same motherfucking thing. There’s a girl in my office who has a bum leg and she hobbles around all day. Do I say anything to her about it, even when she breaks off to take the freight elevator up to the mezzanine level of our office? No, I shut the fuck up because she’s obviously handicapped and probably doesn’t want another asshole asking her what’s up with her leg. Trust me, there’s no hilarious story that goes along with this.
And of course, after they ask and I say, “Uh, its psoriasis,” they have to continue with the awkward line of questioning. Do I put lotion on it? How long have I had it? Does it itch?
SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.
Just walk the fuck away and fucking Google that shit if you want to know so bad.
Seriously, I think I’m just going to stab the next person who asks me about it. And when I’m on trial for murder, this blog entry will be used as evidence as to my mental state of mind and then I’ll be cleared because I’m obviously insane and it will be a victory for every person who has some sort of physical affliction that idiots love to point out to everyone.
Labels: Bitter Bitching