You know what’s so awesome about being me? I can do something like stub my toe and get money if I write a story about it. Sort of takes the pain out of it all. It also makes me want to slam more body parts in things and have more stuff hit me in the face. For profit.

I’m sure there are those of you out there who would be glad to help me with that.

Before I go on, let me assure you that the remainder of this entry is not an exercise in self-pity or an effort to get people to tell me I’m totally hot. I already know that. I’m completely happy with what I am and what I do and where I be and all of that. I was just going through some pictures of my family and started thinking, “what the hell happened here?” First, my parents’ picture taken in 1965:

Here we see the stock from whence I came. The loins of which I am fruit, if you will (and I know you will, you dirty monkeys). Notice how insanely hot my parents are. When I was a kid, I always used to say my mom looked like Marilyn Monroe. That stopped when I was fifteen. Not because she stopped being pretty, but because I saw a nude picture of Marilyn Monroe and that’s just too damn weird. Throughout my life my girlfriends thought my dad was good looking. He wasn’t in the navy as this picture indicates. Actually, he had just auditioned for a spot in the Village People and was rejected for not being gay enough, so he decided to get married. I’m glad he did, too, or my mom might have been an Indian Chief. Okay, he was a pilot in Vietnam, and we all know that being a pilot helps us date out of our league and marry up, so he did.
Anyway, by all accounts my dad’s hot. Whatever. Good looking parents. That’s the point.

About four years after getting married, mom gave birth to my sister, Tamara. Tamara made me eat chalk when I was four by coloring the ends pink and telling me it was candy cigarettes. Chalk tastes like shit, even when you are four and don’t know what shit tastes like. She didn’t make me eat shit until I was 27 (don’t ever eat tootsie rolls out of a litter box, no matter what your sister tells you).

Tamara now lives in Utah and has two kids and a husband named Wade (or as his high school buddies like to call him “the luckiest man alive”). I still tell Wade that if he makes a move on my sister I’ll kick his ass, even though they’ve been married ten years. Here is a picture of her and her daughter Savannah who is some sort of violin prodigy. She started taking lessons when she was two hours old or something. It’s some kind of violin teachy method that’s named after a motorcycle.

Yeah. I know. They are both beautiful. Tamara used to win beauty pageants and date the captain of the whateverball team and all of the other girls hated her because they were all ugly and she wasn’t. I have a feeling Savannah is on a similar path.

So it makes sense so far. Two good looking people gave birth to good looking offspring. We’re going to skip my birth and go on to my younger brother so this will make sense.

You can see that he was born with a rare disease that caused his face to mature much faster than the rest of his body, but he looks normal now. The sailor outfit (which he still wears sometimes) is a relic of my father’s shattered hopes of being a Village Person.

Buttless’s picture has appeared in my diary a few times, and the ladies think he’s hot. Sometimes I even think he’s hot, but then I think that’s wrong to think, so I try to stop thinking it. Buttless plays bass in a band, so in addition to being tall and good looking, he is a rock star. He even had long hair for a while, and women were pretty much powerless in his presence by that point. One time a few years ago, my mom had a bunch of her friends over at the house to play Yahtzee or exchange mom secrets or whatever and I came downstairs to investigate the ruckus. After the introduction to her friends, one of them asked, “is this your son who plays the guitar?” She replied “Oh, no. That’s my other son- the tall, good-looking one.”

I might have cried if I hadn’t been laughing so hard. That’s one of my favorite mom stories.

Anyway, in the fall of 1972, I was apparently left on the doorstep of a house in Escondido, California, because as the song goes- “One of these things is not like the others”. My dad swears that they found me under a rock.

I know I’m not horribly disfigured or anything, and I’m certainly not going to complain about my life, but come on. It just seems like the hotness gene wasn’t fairly distributed here. “Oh, but you have a sense of humor” you may or may not say. Some of you already know that my brother is way funnier than I am, and my sister invented the word “squirty-toot” as a euphamism for diarrhea. ‘Nuff said. “Well can they draw and paint and do creativey stuff?” you may then ask, (your first question having been handily rebutted). I bet they’d both be at least as good at it as I am if they spent their entire life in the basement with a paintbrush like me instead of being all attractive and having friends and shit all the time. “But wait Dusty, you are a good blogger.” Yeah. Let me tell you what a handy life skill blogging is. It’s like telling people you are really awesome at filling things up with water. The literary equiavalent of the girl with the great personality. Shut up.

So the looming question is “would I give up everything I have now to be pretty?”

The answer is hell yeah.

Just kidding. The real answer is “not unless I could write a story about it.”

Ba ba booey.

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