You've got metal on your face, and on your eyebrow too; a slightly sauced man told me, as I was on my way to grandmother's for Independence Day dinner. He did (belligerently) apologize as I backed away. It's rarely I hear an apology that sounds so much like "fuck you". And this whole conversation somehow took place with no other input from me than the fact that I happened to stand on a subway platform.
I do, in fact, know that I have metal on my face, as I paid good money for it. And I'm fairly sure that most people would notice having their flesh pierced by a needle. But thanks, all the same. Having my appearance commented on by strange men is exactly what I'm looking for when I date step outside my home. Being reduced into a faulty object is exactly what I wish when ever I go to my grandmother's. Dickhead.
PS. I've never wanted to smoke less, watching Denis Leary's skit on how much he loves smoking.
