Seeds of Resentment

I just casually glanced down at my left arm and noticed that it was quite a bit darker than my right arm, or any other part of my body for that matter. It was just an innocent observation, but now I’m irritated.

My left arm is darker because it hangs out the window of my 90s car. It hangs out the window because my A/C hasn’t worked in over a year. The rest of my body pales in comparison (badum!)  because I work in a cement-block office during peak sun hours and, let’s face it, I’m not what you’d call a “beach person”. Pale fat looks exponentially worse than tan fat, but I don’t want to bare my body to Ra until I’m better looking sans clothes. Ra is the Egyptian Sun God, in case I’ve lost you. You know him.  He’s the one whose eye you can see tattooed on shoulders and wrists galore. Just go to a place where shirts are optional and I guarantee you’ll see one “eye of Ra” before you leave.

Nice ink, man!


This post has no actual point other than my irritation with not being able to get a tan. I’d go “fake tanning” but I hate everyone who works in those places. They might be great people once you get to know them. They might. But I can’t look at them long enough to find out. Tanning-salon people. I’m not prejudiced…I have a cousin who works in a tanning salon. She’s terrible too. She always asks me when I plan to get a tan and when I plan to get a man. She’s married with children and evidently needs condescending rhymes to communicate with me. This has potential to go on a tangent, so I’ll close for now. Tanning-salon people. Hmph. Or, wait. No air-conditioning in my car. Hmph. And…stupid day job. Yeah, a combination of those three. Hmph.


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