No One Asked for This

by Cazzie David

  “Your smile.” And she of course smiled again, and he kissed her real hard and then twice more on each crease of her mouth for blessing him with that perfect smile.

  When I’m smiling, you can tell it’s unnatural and that I’ve done it only a few times. I’m an inexperienced smiler for two reasons: one, I don’t have a good smile, and two, there are rarely ever things to smile about. I do have good teeth, I can admit that, but having good teeth and having a good smile are completely different. A good smile can trick just about anyone into believing that your beauty is coming from within, even if you’re an awful brat. It is a beaming light that gives off the illusion that your goodness is glowing straight from your soul and out through your face. Good teeth, however, you can buy. They’re always scary-looking, but you can.

  The new girl’s Instagram is kind of shitty, and it makes me feel like mine is trying too hard. It’s cooler to be bad at Instagram; it means she’s better in person because she doesn’t take time out of her life to think about her aesthetic. That’s probably why he likes her so much—because she isn’t a shallow moron. It’s clear she doesn’t edit her photos, which means every photo she posts is exactly how she looks in real life. She doesn’t even need to edit. I need high-level editing skills. I need my friend who is amazing at editing to edit for me. I noticed she opts for short and succinct captions like a row of sun emojis, which makes it hard to gauge her intelligence. Although, after some light stalking, I found one remotely clever tweet and it convinced me she’s funnier than I am, but a funny you want to be around, not a funny like me, where you realize you’re only laughing at my misery.

  I discovered that she has an eclectic mix of skills, all of which will surely be very appreciated in her new relationship. I know he will appreciate her various talents because I know him and I know me, and now I know her. While, sure, I can surf (I can’t) and do yoga (no), I obviously don’t do it well or I’d also be showing it off on the internet. You can tell what people are good at based on their feed, which I guess is why mine is filled with photos of me in bed smoking weed. Her skills may have to do with her being gentile, which means she probably has little to no anxiety. That must be really nice for her and refreshing for him. She’s able to be present and notice everything around her, to say things like “Look at those trees, they’re so beautiful.” Whereas I’d say, “What if one of these trees falls on top of me and kills me?”

  There is no question about it—this girl is definitely fun. There are videos of her dancing and being cute, which she can do because she has perfect hair and that contagious smile. Great hair + smile = you can do embarrassing shit and get away with it. All you have to do is flip your hair or smile and it’s fine. You know those videos hot people post of themselves where they move their body and face around in different angles with no point or explanation? Where they’re just admiring their own selves in some creepy 360-degree hotness confirmation? The videos that seem to lack any self-awareness and are cringeworthy, but then all of a sudden, right at the end of it, the hot person breaks out into a laugh and you think, Never mind, I guess that wasn’t completely obscene like I thought it was? His new girlfriend gets away with that.

  She’s a dream wedding date. She’ll dance with you, dance with kids she doesn’t know, laugh, smile, take shots but not get out of control. I’m the anti–wedding date. I refuse to dance to most music but wedding-DJ music is at the top of the list, and nothing would make me laugh because everyone would be either annoying me or making me feel stupid (it’s always one or the other). You would introduce me to people and be amazed by how I can make the simple act of introducing myself into such an uncomfortable situation.

  But she would be an even more fun concert date. I once went on a concert date and refused to stand up. That’s right—I was the only person seated in the stadium. My poor date was standing ALONE. I think I’m choosing the less embarrassing option in the moment, but whatever I end up doing always ends up being more embarrassing in retrospect. Sitting was obviously more noticeable. No one would have noticed me if I’d stood and swayed. Just leave your body and sway! Forget who you are!I tried to tell myself. Anyways, that guy and I don’t talk anymore. He’ll forever remember me, though, as the girl who wouldn’t stand. But THIS girl at a concert!?! Don’t even get me started. She’s so confident, she’s professionally swaying. He would even be able to take a video of her swaying because she’d be doing it for so long and look so natural doing it. And you know once she realized he was filming her she’d come up to the camera and stick her tongue out and it would be actually cute. Being cute in a guy’s video means so much more because you know for a fact she didn’t ask for a redo like she could have if it were a friend.

  I know she looks a lot better coming out of the water than me because I just looked at photos of her coming out of water. She’s one of those people who, when her hair is sopping wet and slicked back, it doesn’t change her face. Honestly, five days ago I thought I was a pretty solid ocean girl. But after seeing her post-ocean, I now know that was a lie I told myself. She is so ocean, you could push her in the water and instead of freaking out, she’d laugh and pull you in with her, and then right as you popped your head back up, she’d dunk you back in again. Dolphins would swim by in an otherwise dolphin-less body of water, a rare sighting that still wouldn’t take away from the vision that is the ocean girl herself.

  * * *

  A few months later, I found out that they’d broken up, and so the perfect blonde was taken off the pedestal. I never thought about her again and regretted every moment I’d spent obsessing over someone who clearly wasn’t the girl of his dreams. But the next girl definitely was. A brunette with beautiful curls—Spanish curls, not Jewish curls. Thick, straight, blond locks would be forever meaningless to me now, since they were obviously meaningless to him. It was clear that this new girl was actually his dream wedding and concert date, not because she looked hot dancing but because she didn’t at all and yet she didn’t care. It was cuter that she wasn’t coordinated. What kind of unlovable freak was I to be able to hit a softball perfectly? Everyone loves a clumsy girl! They’re adorable! She was the epitome of the you’re-not-like-most-girls girl. (Even though there are so many of those girls that they are like most girls.) But she also didn’t end up lasting for long, which was unfortunate, again taking into account the amount of time I spent obsessing over her. You know what they say about the definition of insanity.

  Then we saw each other, and I didn’t have to think about anyone. Until the next girl, and then the one after that, and so my ex dysmorphia continued to morph. I’d thought him being with someone who was artsy would make me feel worse than him being with a sorority girl until he was with both and they consumed me equally for different reasons. The city slicker who used her oven as shoe storage was just as wifey material as the farm girl who made sourdough. Even the girl I found mindless was just as threatening as the one I considered smart.

  I eventually came to two conclusions. The first was that it always hurts when someone you felt deeply for likes someone new or chooses someone else over you. It hurts worse than it should because you know he doesn’t deserve your hurt and yet he still has it. It never mattered what these other girls looked like or seemed to be like. It’s just that they weren’t me.

  The second: My eyebrows were better than all of theirs. No question.

  * * *

  Almost Pretty

  I realized I wasn’t pretty when I was in second grade. My ears were so big, it was the first thing people noticed about me, even before noticing I was a girl. My grandma used to tape them back every time she visited, which would make my mother cry, but was fair considering they were almost as big as my head. So basically I had three heads. Nicknames were obvious: Dumbo and Elf Ears. There were no nicknames for the pretty girls. What would they be? “Pretty Girl”? In seventh grade, I was actually stoked when I found out I was number 42 on the boys’ hot list because I thought for sure I would be farther down. In additio
n to the big ears, I was also much too skinny; collectively, the bones, ears, sad eyes, and the fact that my personality rarely allowed me to muster a smile made me resemble a child from the Depression era.

  If there were just a couple of things about my face that were a tad different, I could be pretty, but I’m not. Instead, I’m almost pretty. I’m not complaining. I’m incredibly grateful and lucky to be almost pretty. Not as grateful and lucky as I would be if I were full pretty, but more grateful and lucky than if I were not pretty at all. Let me explain. There are many differences between being pretty and almost pretty, and if you’re not sure which one you are, then you’re probably pretty. But in case you don’t know, here is how you can tell.

  Pretty

  Almost Pretty

  • You look the same from every side and angle. You never look like a different person. You have one face.

  • You look like a different person from every angle. There is only one specific angle where you can trick people into thinking you’re pretty, but if you move even an inch to the left, right, up, or down, the truth will be uncovered. You have multiple faces. You show only one of these faces on Instagram.

  • When strangers walk by you on the street they think to themselves, Oh, wow, that girl is really pretty.

  • When strangers walk by you on the street they think nothing, because it’s a normal occurrence for them to walk by people who aren’t exceptionally pretty.

  • Regardless of what your personality is, it makes no dent in your prettiness.

  • If you have an amazing, magnetic personality it can bump you up to being regular ol’ pretty. But if your personality is bad it can knock you down to not pretty at all.

  • You look Facetuned IRL and possibly have had work done. If you had to get surgery to be pretty, it seemingly does not take away from your prettiness. Similar to when people convert to Judaism—they are thereafter considered Jewish.

  • No one will wonder whether you’ve had work done or not because it’s obvious you haven’t. The best way to describe your looks is a “natural disaster.” You fit in better with celebs’ “before” pictures.

  • If you mention to your friends that you want to get filler or some work done on your face, you will be met with outrage.

  • If you mention to your friends that you want to get some work done on your face, you will be met with support or even suggestions like “I bet you could get a noninvasive nose job?” when you’ve never mentioned a problem with your nose to them ever.

  • You look like a porcelain doll.

  • You look like a porcelain doll that something went a little bit wrong with in the factory process. Therefore you don’t look like the other porcelain dolls and they’ll have to toss you out.

  • You can’t really make jokes. In fact, you may have never made a joke in your life. You especially can’t make jokes about your appearance. If you were somehow able to come up with one, no one would laugh; instead, they’d say, “You can’t make jokes like that because you’re actually pretty.”

  • You have a great sense of humor. You’ve been joking as long as you can remember and can make as many jokes as you’d like about your appearance and people will always laugh.

  • You have a variety of cool outfits and multiple pairs of sunglasses.

  • You have a variety of pajamas with bloodstains on them and a retainer.

  • When you get your makeup and hair done for a special occasion, no one is surprised by your appearance—yes, you look fantastic, but you look the same as you normally do.

  • When you get your makeup and hair done for a special occasion, people are shocked by how different you look. In a good way. Because you look so good for you. If that’s a good thing.

  • You can put your hair up in a bun at any time or place. Your buns are effortless. No one can decide which they prefer you with, a bun or no bun.

  • When you put your hair up there is nothing to distract from your face. A bun on you tends to make it look like you’ve had a really long, tough day and are maybe a mother of three. You look like you were dealing with three toddlers all day.

  • You are a pretty girl no matter where you are.

  • You are a pretty girl at law school or with camp goggles. But the prettiest girls at camp were still the ones with the effortless buns.

  • When you start dating a new guy, you can wake up in the morning and not stress about what you look like.

  • When you start dating a new guy, you must set an internal alarm clock to wake up before him so your ugly face can adjust back to normal as your body continues resting.

  • When you look in the mirror after making out with someone for an hour, your hair is probably a little tousled.

  • When you look in the mirror after making out with someone for an hour, you look like Harley Quinn in a DUI mugshot.

  • You can get a good Instagram of yourself any given day of the week.

  • You can get a good Instagram of yourself at most once a month. You can get more than that only if you make a huge effort and the entire thing is planned.

  • You look pretty no matter who you’re surrounded by.

  • If you’re around multiple pretty girls, you will look pretty. If you’re around multiple unattractive people you will morph into being unattractive.

  • You’re Instagram-hot.

  • You’d look hot in a drawing or painting. But if someone were to make a caricature of you it would be hideous.

  • You can pick up a FaceTime call any hour of the day. You don’t look amazing—no one looks amazing—but fine in the front-facing camera.

  • Whether or not you answer a FaceTime call depends on the lighting of the room you are in, and even if it’s flattering, you still show only half your face to the camera.

  • When you’re on FaceTime with your friend and her mean little brother walks by he says nothing.

  • When you’re on FaceTime with your friend and her mean little brother walks by he says, “Whoa, I thought you were the girl from The Ring.”

  • If you make one of your photos black-and-white, it will look cool and indie.

  • If you make one of your photos black-and-white, it will look like it’s a photograph of a pre–World War II immigrant on Ellis Island.

  • Sometimes if you’re full pretty, you’re not beautiful.

  • Almost pretty people are almost always beautiful.

  Is Everything Gonna Be Fine?

  Her fits of pique may be an effort to capture the attention of her parents, who she feels are too involved with their own needs and own lives. Ironically, in doing so, Cazzie becomes another member of the family who is invested in her own experience at the expense of others. There is an aggressive component to this manner of interaction, for which Cazzie pays with anxiety, as imbuing the environment with aggression leads her to anticipate potential retribution for these actions. The darkened house, the dangerous outside world, and other aspects of her environment consequently become persecutory.

  —Excerpt from neuropsychological evaluation of Cazzie David, 2007

  I know for a fact the saying “God doesn’t give you anything you can’t handle” isn’t true because if it were, then God would not have made me a person. Every day I cannot for the life of me believe that I’m a human. It must have been a grave mistake; I figure I was simply a contented soul or spirit floating in the beautiful, tranquil place where souls or spirits reside and then I accidentally fell down some kind of wormhole and got trapped inside a body. I imagine it happened in a similar fashion to how Nemo of Finding Nemo was captured by deep-sea divers and ended up in a dentist’s fish tank. The panic that Nemo felt when he realized he was trapped in a fish tank forever is the way I feel when I wake up every morning and remember that I’m stuck inside a human body.

  I wish that as a fetus, you were given the choice. You’d be shown an introductory video to life on earth, like a commercial for a medication that lists all the side effects. It’d go: “The
things that can happen to you in life are nausea, rape, murder, cancer, UTIs, watching your family and dogs die, natural disasters, witnessing criminal injustice, disease, texting the same selfie you sent to your crush eight months ago for a second time.”

  Then a God-like figure would appear and ask the fetus: “Would you like to live?” Personally, I would be like, Yeah, you know what . . . that doesn’t sound like it’s for me. I appreciate the opportunity of life, but give it to the next person. Although I’m sure if a mentally stable fetus was offered my life, it would take it in a heartbeat.

  I don’t think it’s a coincidence that I’m just as afraid of living as I am lucky to lead the life that I do. It’s a privilege to think about the human condition so much, to be able to be scared because you have nothing real to pay attention to other than your own guilt for thinking about all of the things you know are happening to other people every day. My mom will yell at me, “Just be grateful, Cazzie!” And I’ll yell back, “Of course I’m grateful! If anything, I’m so grateful it makes me miserable!”

  The first time I realized the terrifying truth about being a person in this world was when I was four and I choked on kale. To answer the immediate follow-up question: Did people even know about kale in the 1990s? Yes, my mother seemed to have, because I nearly died from choking on it. Fortunately, the irony of the world’s healthiest leaf almost killing me continues to sum up my life.

  The incident occurred at one of my mom’s infamous family dinners, this one a tradition called “Taco Tuesday” even though it regularly took place on other nights of the week (and was thus renamed Taco Monday, Taco Wednesday, or Taco Thursday). Suddenly, my face was purple and my panicked mother was giving me the Heimlich maneuver, but it wasn’t working. I was then passed around like a hot potato for other people to also try the Heimlich, but not in a fun way where everyone just wants to see if they can be the ones to do it but in the way where if someone couldn’t do it, there would be a dead child. In a final attempt, complemented by a background score of screams, my friend’s nanny reached her fingers down my throat and pulled out the leaf that was trying to end my life. Apparently you’re not supposed to do that when someone’s choking or it can push the item down even farther, but I’m glad she did, even if it did interrupt what was likely God’s messy attempt to return me back to being only a soul. So I was “saved,” I guess, but it was also the moment where the first of my many debilitating fears took root. Eating: something I must do to survive but that can also kill me. What to do?