I have a pimple on the side of my forehead.

Earlier, I was at my friends house and felt this zit jutting out of my forehead. Pulsating. When I got home, I looked in the mirror to examine and with great power, I squeezed that fucker until it threw up on my face.

Since I was already pressed up against the mirror, I decided to check out my hairline. I'm cool with my hairline right now. If it just stays where it is, I'll be fine with it. I'd be great! I brought up the concerns of my hairline to my mother when I was a kid. My father used to have a skullet, now he just shaves his head. In response to my question, my Mom asked me "Have you ever seen a bald [native] Indian?" I said, "I... don't think so..." She says "See? There you go! You've likely got hair from your mother, and I've never seen a bald Indian." She talked about being part native, but I never saw myself as native because it's such a small portion of my family gene pool. I look extremely white. When I look in the mirror, I see an average white guy with brown hair. Aesthetically, I don't see anything that screams native, but she's always insisted it's there. Our native genes never come up unless she can attribute them to something positive.

Holy shit, I touched the pimple and it's jutting out again. Typing that actually made me feel queezy.

Anyways, My Mom loves being partially native, but some of the advice she gave me was ludacris! She pulls the native card at the inappropriate times. My siblings and I were dropped off at home one night, after an evening with the grandparents. I could hear my tense grandmother tell my Mom, "They are wild! They're wild!" My Mom came upstairs, nearly bursting with pride that her little children were referred to as 'wild'. She declared "That's the native side."

My Mom and grandmother never really got along.

When I was a kid, I had a fight with a kid at a public pool, who just so happened to be native. I told my Mom about it when I got home and her advice for me was to go back to the pool and tell him that I was native too. If I was a couple years younger and a little dimmer, that bullshit might have worked. I told her the kid's race wasn't the issue, the issue was him being a fucking dick.

I did sometimes swear in front of my Mom because (so long as I didn't over-use it, use it directed at her or anyone else in the room) she thought I was funny. I think it was one of those unspoke rules.

But imagine I took her advice and went back to the pool to tell the kid I was native, too? I'm not sure that stupid shit would have went over well. One would almost think she was trying to get me killed. I was weary of her advice after that and told myself I may have to watch out for this loose cannon.

The pimple has returned, so I'm going to try to pop it again.

It popped!

As I wiped the puss from my brow and plied a layer of anti-bacterial hand soap over the gaping hole on my head, I noticed a pimple on my forearm.

I've decided I don't / won't care about it at all.

P.S. After I typed that, I got curious about my new forearm pimple. I looked at it and picked at it a little.

I think this is a sufficient introduction to my new old blog.