MySpace? More like Oh-My-Fucking-God-You-People-Appall-Me Space

After my umpteenth invitation to view some chick's webcam, it seemed time to delete my MySpace account. I never use it; it's an abscess on the shiny veneer of social networking, particularly my social networking. Even though I heart the internet, I am not one of those people plugged in at every outlet - I do not twitter, or digg, or flickr, and I do not own a mobile device that provides me on-the-go internet access. Blogging, emailing, and perusing the Craigslist casual encounters is as much as I do with the interweb. Oh yeah, and Facebook. And coming back to my former statement, Facebook is a far more superior method for social networking - it looks cleaner, and is, in my opinion, more user-friendly. Though MySpace was Facebook's predecessor, MySpace has quickly become the ugly, half-retarded, spam-loving step child of internet communication.

So like I was saying, I was going to delete my profile. As I logged onto my MySpace account and considered the piss-poor layout I was about to obliterate, I clicked on one of my 50 "friends" - people who I have known at one point or another, but can't really say I'm friends with. This particular "friend" was a girl I knew in elementary school, someone who I can quite literally say I watched grow up from an awkward, be-spectacled little girl, into a beautiful young woman, then into a ghetto-ized drug-dealer with a penchant for accusing females in the vicinity of her boyfriend of trying to"git wit him." Seriously, she went from coke-bottle eyeglasses to coke-caked nostrils. I don't totally judge her for it - she was one of my partners in crime during my drug-addled summer after college - but the image she purports in her MySpace is a fucking parody, or would be a parody if she didn't really aspire to be what she puts forth to the world.

In essence, her profile is a total fetishization of all that is "gangsta,""ghetto," and "slutty," although I bet she's trying to be sexy. But it's not sexy at all. She substitutes "da" for "the," deliberately loses the "g" on all her gerunds, and says things like "holla!" Possibly the best (or most despicable?) part of her profile is when she declares that she has "been workin in the sex industry for a while now, its been fun n all but I'm ready and qualified fo so much more!" (sic all of that, if you couldn't guess)

Um, I could forgive that statement if she actually worked in the sex industry, but she works at Priscilla's, an "adult boutique" that sells tacky stripper shoes and penis-shaped crazy straws. It does not, in any way shape or form, require my "friend" to twirl around a stripper pole, perform sex acts on camera, or hustle her ass on the street. So why is she implying thus? There is something truly pathetic about a person who finds the sex industry glamorous. Please, go talk to a prostitute and ask how he or she feels about selling their bodies, and then come and tell me how glamorous it all seems.

After spending 15 minutes reading her MySpace profile in amazement and horror, I moved onto my other high school classmates - what can I say? None were too bright, none were too...dignified? Part of the reason why their profiles make them look like caricatures of ghettofabulosity is implicit in MySpace (I know animated GIFs are fascinating, but Jesus Christo one can only take so much before the seizures happen!) But you can't blame Tom for that profile picture of you holding a fan of Benjamins, and you really can't blame Tom when you lack any trace of irony when you're holding that fan of Benjamins. That photostream of you and all your boys? Yeah, it could have been classy if you'd left out the snapshots where you're flashing gang signs and nuzzling up to some "hottie's" ass. And may I remind you that you will be 30 years old in two months? As most sane people say, no time like the present to grow up.

In any case, I decided not to delete my MySpace account. Though I rarely go on it, it does provide great comic relief when I'm feeling kind of low. Also - you can't write this shit. The characters that I'm seemingly friends with could not be conjured by Capote, Oates or King. These MySpace profiles are a well of material, a go-to source for those times when writer's block hits me. True, MySpace really only provides me a close-up to a few character traits (ridiculous and fucking ridiculous being the main ones), but my "friends'" profiles are thorough character-studies in and of themselves. Now is the time for you all to start anticipating my debut novel, "Who Knew I Attended High School with Retards?"

A few demands for the parents of the world

I like little kids. I think they are cute and smart and fun to talk to. Whenever I see a 3 y/o toddling down the sidewalk, it makes me smile and dream about the day when I will have one of my own.

But lately I've been hardpressed to call upon this fondness when trapped in confined places with children. A recent lunch at a pizzeria had me rolling my eyes and cursing under my breath because I was so annoyed with the little kids sitting next to me. My manners left me - I actually stared the dad in the eye and shot him Angel of Death daggers because his youngins were bothering me so badly.

I left before I had the chance to throw a highchair through the soda cooler, and the walk back to work gave me time to ponder my sudden aversion. Had New York jaded me so? This post is a bit cliche in the fact that nearly every single 20-something living in this town despises children; it's almost a prerequisite to move here. But I soon realized that the kids weren't the problem - it was the fucking parents! So here I am, a single 20-something with no children, detailing what parents should and should not do to make my life easier and more enjoyable.


1. QUIT BADGERING YOUR KIDS

Since when did little kids start getting interrogated like hostile teenagers? Whenever I'm sitting down at a dining establishment and some mom or dad has hauled along their toddler, the parent won't stop talking, when clearly the kid is preoccupied with picking their nose or tearing up a napkin or drawing on the wall or some other innocuous thing in silence. Their child has found something interesting and quiet to do, but the parent drones on and on - "How are you feeling? What do you want to do today? How many juiceboxes did you drink today? Tell me your ABC's -" And the kid says nothing, just concentrates on their activity. But the parent pursues the conversation, and even seems to be taken aback that their child doesn't want to talk to them. God, JUST SHUTUP WOULD YOU? Give your child - and me - a moment of peace.


2. STOP GIVING YOUR KIDS SO MANY OPTIONS

A common misconception in life is that having lots of options is enriching. Sometimes it is, like when choosing a color to paint your nails, but not so much when you repeatedly ask your kid, "What do you want to eat?" within my earshot. I know it's just a pizza parlor, it's not like they have decide what vintage wine would pair best with their glazed duck, but demanding that a 3 y/o choose what toppings they have on their pizza is fucking insane! It's insane because that kid probably doesn't know a pepperoni from a sausage, or a pepper from an onion, and don't swear to me up and down that your child knows "because they are gifted" - they aren't. Maybe they are, but you can't claim that just because one time they pointed to a picture of a mushroom and said, "pizza."

Another reason it is insane is because toddlers don't like any toppings on their pizza; hell, I ate cheese pizza only until I was sixteen years old. So parents please, do us all (me) a favor and order the simplest item for your child, or offer them two choices, both of them simple and common so you won't have to badger your kids them for a decision. This will make for an optimal experience while I am forced to share a public space with your family.


3. CONTROL YOUR GODDAMN CHILDREN

I feel like this complaint is on every list ever written about the problems singles have with other people's kids, but it's always on said lists because the parents have yet to learn.

I was walking my dog from the park one day when a little boy, four-years-old I'd say, ran off his front stoop and followed me around the corner. His mother didn't stop him, so I got worried and slowed down my pace, afraid that he would follow me too far and get lost (it takes a village, people. Oh ha, totally unintended pun!) As the little boy followed, he ran up and started to hit my dog on the back. "Don't do that," I warned, "he doesn't like that." When my dog turned around to see what rude jerk was hitting him, the little boy ran away. But 30 seconds later he was behind me again, this time with a stick in his hand, which he proceeded to hit my dog with. This kid must be the next Jeffrey Dahmer, since he was so obsessed with abusing my dog.

"No, don't do that," I told him, trying not to be a total bitch but at the same time furious that his mother thought it appropriate to let her little freak of nature wreak havoc on me and my dog. My dog turned around, and I didn't hold him back - he lurched at the boy, thus sending him running home. That was the last we saw of him.

Parents: I understand that you think your child is special and that they should be allowed to roam wild so as to find their unique talents. I also know that you believe that we as adults should understand that for a child to fully develop, we need to be understanding when the child throws tantrums at the post office and uses your keys to draw SpongeBob on the side of our car. But what you think is not normal, so your opinion is moot. Therefore, stop raising monsters. I shouldn't have to deal with your uncontrollable child now, and I certainly don't want to pay for your uncontrollable child when he or she ends up in the state pen.

Listicle Time: The Top Six Kids Shows that I had No Right to be Watching

So there are plenty of kids shows out there meant for the enjoyment of children and adults alike. SpongeBob SquarePants is the main one that comes to mind, but you can look at any Pixar film and see that what I say is true - shows for kids have evolved since Hanna-Barbera.

But you know what? When I was younger, there were some kids shows that were really, actually, just meant for kids. And I continued to watch them well after the appropriate age, in part for kitsch value, and in part because I couldn't. stop. watching. There I was, a fifteen year old who had by most means let go of everything that connected her to childhood; the barbie dolls, footie pajamas, and stuffed animals all sat in a damp trunk in the basement. Yet I would watch these kids shows, all the while my thumb was stealthily on the "LAST" button should my sister walk in the room and I need to do a quick switch to TRL or some other "teenage" show (this skill would later prove useful while watching Real Sex with my mom in the next room). Below are some of the kids shows I watched way past my expiration date.

Doug

Great theme song. Inventive character names (Mosquito, anyone?). Fabulous wardrobe. And an anthropomorphic dog - how could you not love Doug? Nematoads! The Beets! Childhood, where are you?

Doug was one of those cartoons that I never admitted to watching, nor even made time to watch, but whatever station it was playing on (Nickelodeon, usually), that's the station I was tuned in to. My sweaty, smelly, 15- y/o self would traipse home from volleyball practice, grab a ho-ho and a glass of pop, and plop down on the couch to watch Doug Funny endure the trials and tribulations of adolescence. Since I was technically older than Doug (therefore wiser), I would sympathetically nod my head when he worried over how he looked in his school picture - I knew exactly how he felt, because, at one time, I too worried about how I looked in my school picture! Oh but wait, I still was worrying how I would look, and not just in my school picture, but in EVERY picture. I still worry to this day, but at least now I have the freedom to drink away my body-dismorphia . Yay alcoholism!

When it moved to the Saturday morning cartoon timeslot, Doug's shorts became longer and the show got lame. But the Doug memories of my youth cannot be touched - er, so long as I don't get brain damaged somehow (prime reason to stop doing drugs!).

Rugrats

What evil genius thought that kids above the age of 8 (let alone 14) would love this gem of a show? I'm betting the pitch wasn't that easy.

"I propose we make a show about babies!"

"But we're aiming for the 8-12 demographic."

"No shit - don't you know how cool babies are? They do a ton of crazy stuff when the grown-ups aren't looking. They are so cool that 12-year-olds - wait, nix that - 15-year-olds will want to be them."

Ok, maybe I never wanted to be Tommy, Chuckie, Angelica or any of the rest of the gang, but I did wear a Burger King Edition Rugrats watch when I was in the 9th grade (though I might have been trying to be - gulp - ironic).

Looking back, I'm slightly afraid that those of us who grew up with Rugrats have picked up parenting cues from the show, to which I say, lord have mercy on us all. Ever notice how often the parents in Rugrats ignored their kids? They would corral them in the backyard and leave them unattended for hours. That is when all the adventures happened, when the kids were alone, and there was an adventure every episode - that tells me that, were the Rugrats parents real people, they'd have been taken to court by CPS ages ago.


Wishbone

A confession: I have not read every classic that ever existed. Gah, I know! I'm a dolt. But sometimes these classics will come up in conversation, books like Rip Van Winkle and Don Quixote, and the reason why I know what these stories are about is because of Wishbone! Well, he's not the only reason, but Wishbone was my first introduction to classics which are thoroughly studied and often referenced.

Maybe it was because Wishbone was another anthropomorphic dog, but I'd tune in day after day, despite the fact that I was a teenager with sex readily available to her (I didn't lose it til I was 18, but I'm assuming that at least one of my classmates would have been willing to do the deed with me). While my classmates were making babies, I was sitting innocently in my living room humming the Wishbone theme song.

One time my sister - my younger sister, mind you - caught me watching Wishbone. This was a watershed moment for me - I had the choice to quickly change the channel and pretend I was just flipping, thus denying who I was, or I could toss the remote aside and proudly let the little dog show off his acting chops to my sister. I did the latter - I chose to be myself. My dumb, easily amused self. My sis made fun of me for watching a kids show, but it wasn't that big of a deal - I was older with the adroit ability to beat the shit out of her.

Arthur

Wow, this list is getting long. So yeah, I was a big fan of Arthur when I was 15, even moreso than when I was 8. I think because of the utopic society it represents. The more I think about that, the more it makes sense - I was kind of depressed as a teen, and instead of taking Prozac or cutting myself, I watched Arthur. Also, DW was my hero.

Can we please for a second ruminate on this picture? That's Arthur posing with a celebrity, an A-list celebrity. Can you guess who? Here's a hint: I used to have a slight crush on this actor, except now that I've seen him as a cartoon chipmunk, I'm horrified. Did that help?

Blues Clues

Ok, I'm not saying this is true, but I may or may not have had a crush on Steve. Whether I did or not is moot, though - I liked watching Blues Clues because of the fact that a human being was walking in a paper-machet house and interacting with a cardboard dog. The trickery fascinated me - like, how did they do that? I know, I know, green screen and whatnot, but the fact that a human person was acting on a set that he couldn't even see was mind-boggling (except for that huge orange chair - I'm pretty sure that was a tangible part of the set). Not only did he have to have a conversation with salt and pepper shakers, but he couldn't SEE the salt and pepper shakers. Truly astounding.

Teletubbies

This show I watched for pure kitsch value. Seriously. It would all go down thusly: In high school, my friend Carrie's dad would get us lunch, so me and about three or four of my other girlfriends would go to her house, flop our asses on her sofa, and mow down on some Taco Bell while these four aliens blazed across the television screen.

I hated this show, but my friend Leanna thought they were cute, so we'd put it on the screen and make fun of it while Leanna drooled over the little one (Po). Teletubbies earned some points in my book when Christian fundamentalists started getting all angry that the purple one was promoting homosexuality to kids. The Teletubbies were way too androgynous for me to discern a gender, let alone a sexual preference, but it was funny to see the Funds holding up signs of protest and marching in the street over something so stupid. Way to be a rebel, Tinky-Winky. Screw DW - Tinky is my hero now.

The Yard: Epicenter of Hipsterdom

I've been a bad blogger. To the five of you who selflessly humor me by reading my site, please accept my heartfelt apology. You see, I've been busy. And even a little lacking in inspiration. I think of about 20 different things to blog every day, but after giving said ideas a little thought, I realize that no one really wants to read about the inane minutia that I encounter.

But I think I've found something that will forever haunt me if it's not written in a cohesive thought, hence...to the blog cave! (Quite an accurate description of my room, I must say).

I went to a show at The Yard this past Saturday, and partook in the enjoyment of some indie rock, drank PBRs (I wasn't trying to be ironic, it was the only cheap beer they had), and gnashed on some chicken burritos. Also...I WAS SURROUNDED BY HIPSTERS.

Some of you may be wondering what a hipster is...how to explain? As my friend Aaron once put it, a hipster is someone who pays a lot of money to look like a homeless person. Here is the definition I lifted from Urban Dictionary.

Hipster:

Listens to bands that you have never heard of. Has hairstyle that can only be described as "complicated." (Most likely achieved by a minimum of one week not washing it.) Probably tattooed. Maybe gay. Definitely cooler than you. Reads Black Book, Nylon, and the Styles section of the New York Times. Drinks Pabst Blue Ribbon. Often. Complains. Always denies being a hipster. Hates the word. Probably living off parents money - and spends a great deal of it to look like they don't have any. Has friends and/or self cut hair. Dyes it frequently (black, white-blonde, etc. and until scalp bleeds). Has a closet full of clothing but usually wears same three things OVER AND OVER (most likely very tight black pants, scarf, and ironic tee-shirt). Chips off nail polish artfully after $50 manicure. Sleeps with everyone and talks about it at great volume in crowded coffee shops. Addicted to coffee, cigarettes (Parliaments, Kamel Reds, Lucky Strikes, etc.), and possibly cocaine. Claims to be in a band. Rehearsals consist of choosing outfits for next show and drinking PBR. Always on the list. Majors or majored in art, writing, or queer studies. Name-drops. May go by "Penny Lane," "Eleanor Rigby," etc. when drunk. On PBR

A lot of people in these parts, who aren't hipsters, don't really like hipsters. When I first moved to NY, I didn't get all the hipster hate - so what if they dress differently? Who cares if they are pretentious and parade around posing as "artists"? Hipster-haters complain that they drive up rents here in the city, thus driving out lifelong residents while they laligag and let dad pay the rent. But, after attending The Yard this past weekend, I have realized there is more to it. These hipsters are kind of a bane on society and give hard-working, honest kids like myself a bad name. Allow me to explain.

First off, I didn't realize what I was in for before the show. As my bf and I drove to the venue in Park Slope, I noticed many many bikes chained to fences and street signs. "Wow, it feels like we're in Williamsburg," I noted. For anyone unfamiliar with Williamsburg, Brooklyn, the streets are INUNDATED with bikes and the hipsters that own them. Chrome litters the sidewalk in that neighborhood, and it's like you are walking in a scrap yard, and the bikes are all consumed in this metal-painted orgy, piled on top of each other and toppling into the streets, prepared to ruin some innocent driver's day.

So the bikes were upon us, strangling the street signs and fledgling baby trees with their chains. At the entrance, the attendant stamped the insides of our wrists. Why the insides of our wrists as opposed to the backs of our hands, I don't know, but I have realized that there is a good reason to stamp the back of the hand instead - because the ink can't get all over your skin and clothing as easily. Seriously hipsters, I don't know if you were trying to be ironic with the wrist stamping, but by the end of the night the ink had smeared on my legs and skirt. Tools.

When we made it inside, it soon became apparent that the bf and I were out of our element. A thick stench of B.O. hung on the air. Boys clad in scummy keds and green socks crept around with PBRs in hand. Girls stood hostile behind their bug-eye sunglasses and high-waisted shorts. In general, the crowd was just one giant ball of smell and ugly, of self-importance and hypocrisy.

The bf and I, who are by nature warm-hearted and open, realized that we would be making no friends there, and that is my general complaint after going to this show Saturday night. It's not like we were expecting to become best friends with anyone, but when I ask if this is the line for beer, I'd appreciate more than a grunt for response. If you bump into me, I'd like it if you could just look me in the eye and acknowledge that accidents happen, instead of shooting me a loathsome look. Get off your high-horse and ditch the "tortured artist" attitude, because if your idea of personal style is any reflection on your "art," whatever you "create" is ordinary and copied, thus you have no more cultural significance than I do.

And more on the hipster "personal" "style" - never have I seen so many tattered, threadbare and mismatched outfits in all my life. My bf compared many of the girls to Laura Ingalls and Little Orphan Annie because their dresses were literally disintegrating. It's all part of the hipster schtick to look like a poor and starving artist, but the jig is up when you are seen chatting away on your BlackBerry Pearl. There was even a girl decked out in a majorette uniform, complete with a coiffed camel toe. Um, let me just say this - I used to be a majorette and I was forced to strap myself in those lycra jumpsuits throughout high school...and it sucked. The uniform was uncomfortable and unflattering, and the fact that you, girly, voluntarily wore that ridiculous outfit makes a mockery of the suffering endured by all the poor majorette girls in the world.

As for the guys, their hairdos and beards were perfectly greased and uncombed, and their socks evinced all the colors of the rainbow - observe:



















We made it out alive, in no small part due to the many beers we imbibed, but I am still thanking my lucky stars that I don't live in Williamsburg (though I'm sure the infestation will take over Bay Ridge by the year 2012).

Oh, and more bonus pics of moi and the crowd:

For more anthropological studies on hipsters, visit www.diehipster.com

The voices in my head commanded me to write this post

I can't really think of anything cohesive to write at the moment, but I don't want to let the blog go another day without posting...so I'm just going to write a bunch of random shit I've been thinking. You can do the same in the comments.

- I quit smoking, or rather, I have gone all of today without smoking, not because I resolved to quit but because I was too lazy to take my ass to the store to buy some. Well. Maybe the fact that my laziness trumped my addiction is a good sign.

- omigod I have to wake up at 5:15 am to take my roommate to the airport. Gah! He's so fucking cheap, I know he has the $30 to get a cab to the airport, but he still had the gall to ask me to drive him. Eh, small price to pay for one blissful week without him. I am going to walk around naked every day until he returns.

- speaking of the roommate, it's getting to that time when I need to tell him I'm moving out. How will I do this? What will be his reaction? I kind of hope he reacts badly, because it will give me an excuse to be a raging bitch and let loose bottled resentments.

- sometimes I wonder if I hate men. I'm talking vehement hate - I hate religion, but really, I can chalk up that loathing to a hate for men. I don't want to hate men, namely because I like having sex with them. But wow, so much heartache and pain in this world comes from their hands.

- I have been afflicted by some serious stomach problems lately, and when I started thinking about it, I realized that I have had stomach problems for quite some time now. Do you think I have ABS? Or Crohn's disease? (Sidenote: I once f'ed a guy who had Crohn's and he was soooooo annoying, and partly a psycho. I hope psychosis isn't a side effect of the disease).

- Ugh, I did E again the other night and I'm done. At my bf's prodding we did too much (again), and though the recovery wasn't as bad as last time, I DO kind of feel stupider after taking it. Maybe that's because someone warned me of the ramifications of Ecstasy...? If I do it anymore, I'm sure I will become a vegetable, and that's pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen to me.

When in doubt, buy generic

I'm only 24, but I often think about what I want to impart on my future children. Hopefully I won't be having any kids for another ten years or so, but from the way my heart softens every time I see a baby, my body is probably subconsciously willing my ovaries to fertilize at this very moment.

I will take my kid(s) into the booth when I go to vote; I will teach them the importance of empathy and compassion. And even though I'm a feminist, I'm not going to force all of my feminazi boner-killing opinions on them - I will simply lay out the facts (oh who am I kidding? My bias will ultimately lead to my daughter rebelling and becoming an anti-choice, bible-thumping Republican cheerleader).

Also? I'm going to teach them to buy generic.

At the grocery store the other day, I went on the search for my favorite "part of a balanced breakfast"cereal, Reese's Puffs. When I couldn't locate it, I considered other peanut butter flavored cereals, but they were like $5.50 a box - wtf!?!? Good god, with the price of food increasing, I'm going to have to start sucking dick just for a can of soup and a Kraft single.

After staring at the cereal shelf for ten (or twenty) minutes, my eyes drifted down and landed on a box of Foodtown Cocoa Peanut Butter Spheres. For only $2.19, I was sold.

The name might be a little clunky (spheres? I guess 'balls' has entered the realm of "too much innuendo to be family-friendly"), and there certainly is no prize waiting for me at the bottom, but the generic cereal is just as good, if not better, than the name-brand stuff.

And this happens all the time - salad dressing, pasta, ketchup - the generic form is just as good as the name brand. Why are we all so retarded as to pay $3.00 more for a name and a prize? If you base you grocery purchases on the fact that your kid (or you) wants that chinsy piece of plastic that is promised to be mingled in with your cereal, put a quarter in the toy dispenser on your way out.

Now, there are some generic foods that actually DON'T taste as good as the name-brand...but the only one I can think of at the moment, I'm not even sure if it's a generic food. Or drink.

Yes folks, I'm thinking of RC Cola. That stuff is nasty, in no way is it as good as Coke or Pepsi, it's not even as tasty as crab juice (guess where I lifted that from!), but is it a generic soda, or just a plan old shitty soda? Hell, it might not even exist anymore. Does someone want to check? You know you've reached the pinnacle of laziness if you don't even feel like doing a 30-second Google search.

SO what other generic foods are just as good as the name-brand? And what generic foods suck big fat donkey dick? Comments people, comments! (I'm talking to you, Mom)

Acne Sufferers, I have found the Answer

Acne is a common annoyance when you are a teen. Well, when you're a teen, it's a huge fucking crisis, but everyone else is pizza-faced too.

The myth that once you become an adult your face will magically clear-up is what got me through high school, but in fact my acne got WORSE when I got to college. It was probably a mix of stress, bad food, increased smoking, and spending too many nights passed out with hooker make-up caked on my face that exacerbated my pimple outbreaks. And even though I've corrected most of my acne-causing behavior (still smoking - I gotta put an end to that one day), the adult acne is still a fat, volcanic blemish on my social life.

Or WAS.

Over Christmas, my aunt, who also has skin problems (at 45!), gave me a tube of facewash prescribed by her dermatologist.

Now I have tried everything to cure my acne - pills, medicated OTC facewashes, birth control (though I never took a condom to my face...er, I mean - oh whatever, make the joke, pervs), but the wash my aunt gave me is the only thing to make a significant, long-lasting difference.

The wash is called Sodium Sulfacetamide 10% and Sulfur 5% Wash, made by Glades.

My acne is not fully gone, but it is definitely less severe. Whereas before, there was a new pimple (or 5) on my face every morning, now I only get a pimple right before I start my period, and I don't get acne cysts anymore.

It's only available with a prescription, and you should definitely ask your doctor if it is safe for your skin before using it, but bring it up next time you see the dermatologist. Here's to hoping it works for you!