Skin Flakes in my Corn Flakes


I went tanning for the first time last week. My boss bought a tanning salon, and since I now have the option to use the tanning beds for free, I felt like it would be a waste to not try it at least once.

A week later, I’m still peeling.

My chest.

My arms.

My not-chest-and-not-arms.

Anyone who’s read my writing knows I don’t do a whole lot of research when it comes to places and things that are based in reality. In fact, I did about as much research on orphanages for Birthday Girl as Marvel Studios did on physics for Iron Man. I value entertainment more than I value reality. As Thanos would say, “Reality is often disappointing.”

That being said, I did absolutely no research whatsoever on how to tan properly. I figured I’d just wing it.

The results, I daresay, provided entertainment.

For my first session, I opted for the full 12 minute experience (cue “That’s What She Said!”) I was smart enough to at least use the least intense setting. I was not, however, smart enough to wear any form of lotion.

Or eye wear.

Or any form of coverage on Menards.

Now, I find skin cancer about as funny as any American should. But you know what’s not funny? Being burnt like a goddamn angry lobster…but only on the front side and back side. Nothing but White Stripes on my sides and inner thighs…because I didn’t know you were supposed to spread your limbs and lay there like a starfish while tanning. So now my whole body looks a bit like Uma Thurman’s tracksuit in Kill Bill, except dark red and pasty white instead of sexy yellow and sexy black.

Not that the whole experience wasn’t, overall, enjoyable. Skin flakes are like souvenirs; I like to peel them off in large strips and pretend they’re parchment paper and I’m a first-year at Hogwarts (because even in hypothetical fan fiction, I’m still the creepy weird kid). Also, I’m pretty sure they’re high in fiber, so I can add them to my protein shakes.

Isn’t recycling magical?

However, my butt cheeks are burning like the Amazon rain forest, and that’s a bit of a bummer. (YouSeeWhatIDidThere?)

In other news, I drank a lot of coffee last night and finished ten more pages in the third Birthday Girl book. Book One was the blood-covered birthday cake and candles, Book Two (Birthday Girl: Coronation) is the Neapolitan ice cream and awkward unwrapping of last-minute birthday gifts, and Book Three is the inevitable drunken brawl between family members and the ensuing carnage and all-encompassing inferno which gets you permanently banned from the bowling alley.

Book Two should be out soon…ish. Like I said, I’m taking my time with it. It’s a marketing strategy that’s worked quite well for George R.R. Martin and Justin Roiland.



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