Dear People Who Won’t Shut Up About
My Hickey,

Alexandra Jones

After a discourse that has been — and this is my fault
entirely —woefully one-sided, I have decided to respond to
you, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey. The sum total
of your silly taunts, childish innuendo, sexist comments and
outright astonishment has weighed on my mind for the past few days,
but now, I can reply calmly, in full and without embarrassment.

Your ranks include the likes of my roommate, my classmates,
friends, teachers, even the supposedly innocent boy who branded me
with such a lack of consideration and civility.

Last Saturday, when I received what would be — if honors
were bestowed for such things — a prizewinning hickey on the
lower right region of my neck, I knew what to expect in the coming
week.

However, I chose to act with propriety, as though nothing at all
was out of the ordinary and there wasn’t a mark roughly the
color and size of a small eggplant peeking out above my T-shirt
collar. But you, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey,
chose to take a decidedly lower path than I.

Because of your immaturity, People Who Won’t Shut Up About
My Hickey, I and my monstrous love bite (I was going to give it a
name, but I knew it’d be gone soon and didn’t want to
get too attached) have endured pointing and giggling, offensive
remarks and even wide-eyed disbelief at the sheer extremity of my
hickey.

Yes, it covered an area of nearly 1.5 square inches at its peak
and varied in color from pale mauve to a deep indigo, but
that’s no reason to laugh, or stare wide-eyed at my neck and
say, “Oh my God! That is, without a doubt, the most enormous
hickey I’ve ever seen in my life.” Because my hickey
merely amounts to a slight contusion, a section of broken
capillaries that my body will quickly heal and forget —
unlike you, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey.

Despite its graphic appearance — to which some of you
responded with that not at all witty “curling iron
accident” line — my hickey hardly felt like anything.
But you can bet, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey,
that after a certain boy administered my supposedly heinous bruise
and alerted me to its extremity by saying “Oh shit! Oh shit,
I’m sorry,” that I punched him really hard a couple
times.

It’s true, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey,
that it didn’t have to be this way. That’s why you
think I’m so deserving of your criticism — that I
practically begged for your inane giggles and gross comments about
branding. I could have refrained from opening this dermatological
can of worms.

Unfortunately, I don’t know the first thing about applying
foundation or concealer; hell, thanks to my stunning complexion, I
don’t even own makeup. But it’s common knowledge that
cosmetics are not the only solution to an age-old conundrum like
mine.

Indeed, I own a number of stylish turtleneck sweaters, and even
a few neck scarves that could have easily done the job in just such
an emergency. However, high temperatures and too-sunny September
days would have been suspicious, never mind uncomfortable. And
let’s face it — even in winter, who wears turtlenecks
for five days in a row?

Obviously, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey, I
decided to be honest about my hickey rather than conceal the truth,
to display my massive neck bruise without hesitation or
embarrassment. As you know, while I was “with hickey,”
I proudly donned T-shirts, Oxford dress shirts with the collar
button undone, even a strappy tank top.

I wore that bruise like a badge of honor. Nothing could make me
feel ashamed, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey.
Despite the jokes, the derisive comments, the slight feeling of
shock I felt every time I checked my otherwise fine self out in a
store window, I remembered, but I never gave up. Every morning I
was greeted by that scarlet H staring at me from the bathroom
mirror, but I didn’t crumble under the pressure.

While I’m proud that my convictions stood firm, People Who
Won’t Shut Up About My Hickey, you sure have taught me a
thing or two. For example, don’t let boys bite you unless you
want your friends — who you thought were respectable, mature
and educated people — to regress to a sixth grade mentality
and annoy the shit out of you. Also, if the boy who gave you this
makeout monstrosity makes any dumb jokes about “marking his
territory,” punch him really, really hard until you feel
better.

It’s been real, People Who Won’t Shut Up About My
Hickey, but as my egregious neck bruise heals, you guys have got to
move on.

For real: Shut up about my stupid hickey, okay? Seriously.

 

Regards,

Alexandra Jones

If you see Alex on the Diag, check out her hot hickey. Act
now — it’s fading fast! She can be reached at
“mailto:almajo@umich.edu”>almajo@umich.edu.

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