New York City. Ice and slush on the ground; supposed to snow hard tomorrow; inside Diego’s apartment drinking Vitamin Water and eating Chef Boyardee; mentally preparing for Polish dinner in Greenpoint with my former coworkers; ’tis a rough life indeed.
Thought I’d do something unusual here on I Eat My Pigeon this afternoon as I wait for the Beefaroni to be absorbed into my bloodstream; that is, respond to a reader’s comment. Now I don’t do this very often, mainly because until recently, I haven’t gotten many*. But I got one today that has been asked before in various media, from you out there in Internet land and my own friends and family so I thought I’d give it a whirl.
Re: my most recent post about my awesome winter wear:
p.s. Why do you always hide your face?
Thank you, Odysseus. I am adorable, no matter what my brother says. But “Why Do You Always Hide Your Face?” Good question. Here’s your answer:
I hide my face because I’m really, really, really, really, really good-looking.
Really. In fact, I’m so breathtakingly gorgeous that if you were to see my face, you’d forget all about the writing. Trust me; many have gone down this treacherous path. It starts innocently enough – appreciation of my nose, idle midnight musings about my eyebrows – but then you’d become obsessed. I mean, you’d want to make me yours. Girl, boy, whatever – you’d want me so bad it gave you energy.
You wouldn’t sleep.
You wouldn’t eat.
Pigeon, Pigeon, Pigeon: that’d be the ceaseless tattoo in your brain. Travel writer, schmavel shmiter. Do my words mean nothing to you? How dare you objectify me like this. And here I thought we were having such a great time together, weren’t we? Why would you want to risk our friendship by bringing hot monkey sex into the equation? I don’t want to do that – do you? I do so love our talks. No. No. The gorgeous face stays hidden. We remain travel blogger and travel blog reader. You remain in one piece.
I hide my face because I’m really, really, really, really, really hideous.
I’m not kidding. Babies weep. Horses shudder in disgust. My mirrors are all covered – even the one in my compact, save for a slice of reflection where I can check for sunflower seeds in my black, lump o’ coal teeth.
I wasn’t always this way, you know. I started out medium-ugly, as babies often do. But the accident. The flames. The petroleum jelly. The bamboo. I mean. At least I have my wit. My words. Are they as beautiful as I am inside? Only you can tell me. Tell me. Please tell me. Please make me feel love for the first time in my hideous, misshapen, troglodyte life.
I hide my face because I’m famous and you don’t know.
Each day, I pat myself on the back to think that no one’s twigged after 5 years. You normal people with your public transport and your laundromats are such fools sometimes. But it’s true and it’s awesome. I’m famous! Haha! Listen – Diego and I are part of a celebrity sibling duo: Cusack, Gyllenhall, Beatty and MacLaine, take your pick. Everyone I write about is famous, too. Joy is Reese Witherspoon. My parents are Sophia Loren and Edward James Olmos. Leone is Roberto Benigni. Nero and Luigi and Rico are The Three Stooges. The DiVecchios are Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes; Emilia is Suri. It’s Juicy Hollywood Exposed up in this hizz, y’all, but I don’t feel like dealing with the lawsuits ’cause I’m busy trying to get taken seriously for something other than acting. Is it working? Are you taking me seriously for my beautiful prose? You are. It’s working. I can feel it working.
… why do I never show my face? Why do I always use pseudonyms? Because I don’t like feeling as though I have to censor myself when I write.
Privacy, guys. Privacy.