I’m not generally one for pulchritude, but I feel like I’ve passed a point of no return. I am not vain, but I know that now that I’m out my “youth” and into my “young adulthood” there are things that will just get worse. “Worse.” Meaning more mature, I guess? More defined, more distinguished.

It’s a love/hate thing for me; I’m so used to seeing something on my body and thinking, “Oh, hey, that’ll go away in a week.” and now, it’s the exact opposite—now it’s, “Oh, hey, that’ll be there for the rest of my life.” It’s weird. It’s hard. Literally facing my mortality every day is quite the new thing, and it makes me realize that I am finite.

So better make a comic about it!