once kissable, now kissed, has been lifted more times than a public dumbbell. Face-lifted, that is. My lips are plump, swollen, and tight. At least, they are NOW! Before, they sagged like the backside of a seasoned porn star who had been shooting Alien Encounters, Attack on Uranus, for three straight weeks.

    So I've had some work done… Sue me!!!

    In a few weeks, no one will even know. I'll slip back into subtlety — though my looks are far from subtle. At least that's what most men tell me through white-buffed teeth.

    My recently wretched nose will settle. The cartilage will become soft and pliable, and my scalpel slits — carved out like smiles under each breast — will mellow. That couldn't happen sooner, under-boob bumps are pretty much THEE WORST.

    It's a manufactured sort of beauty, but what isn't these days?

    Judge me, go ahead. Fix yourself a nice Hot-Judge-Sundae. I would have.

    "Look at that chopped-up soccer mom. She's double stitched just like her Louis-Vee," might have said the old, youthful me.

     I never thought plastic surgery was an option, and definitely not one that I'd endure more frequently than taking out the trash — kidding, this is California; I have maids for that. That's awful, and I'm completely kidding, but, sadly, I do have a maid for that.

     Point is: I'm a living, breathing hypocrite; and over the years, it played out like this:

 

My twenties: "I'll never go under the scalpel… I mean, like, how vain? There's cleft palates and blah-blah-blah and people are ELECTING to cut their faces… no thank you. Can you say sacrilegious?!"

 

My thirties: "I'll never go under the scalpel… unless it's for something small, like narrowing the bridge of my nose — I mean, I DO have a deviated septum, it's totally plausible; but, like, I don't need it right now."

 

My forties: "I'll never go under the scalpel… twice in one month. THAT'S how people die. Grow up and space out your appointments."

 

My current motto: Stuff me like a spring ham and tuck it all behind the ears.

 

WHAT I DIDN'T KNOW…

 

    Is that plastic surgery turns into an awful, vicious cycle. Like a snake eating its tail, it really takes its toll. The Percocet, the Oxy, the Hydro-what-have-yous, not only pick the meat of your brain like you were preening with a steak knife, but they give your face a real once-over, too.

    Painkillers tend to suck south.

    They bloat your eyes and yellow your skin.

    So back under the blade you go, just to stay current. You're slit and pulled tight (again), then given more of the little suckers who threw a block party on your face in the first place.

    Maybe I'm addicted to the process as a whole. Am I addicted to elective surgery? Why? Is it the Valium drip? Or the pulsating socks to keep circulation in your feet?

    I don't think that's it. I mean, I get more of a kick from Demerol than I could from a five-dollar foot massage at the mall on Christmas.

    You know the dirty little trick of Saran Wrap on the toilet seat? I feel like that. Tightened with no wrinkles. Only people still see me, and I still get pissed on.

I don't mean I literally get pissed on. I have a dark sense of humor. You'll get used to it, don't worry. And if you don't… suck it.

    Stop reading.

    It won't matter.

    You'll read about me some way or another.

    My name is Casey Ringer. I'm a forty-something, single mom, with a brand new SLR in my garage, no foreseeable mortgage payment on my house in the Hollywood Hills and, yet, here I am, robbing a Walgreens.

   

How in the fuck did I get here???

 

I guess I DO have time 'til the cops arrive, blaring blues and reds as they sight me with both eyes and a finger on the trigger. So I might as well tell you, right?

Shall we begin?