Note from 2022 Karen: This post was written 10 years ago and languished in my drafts. Until now. Because I’d scheduled it to post 10 years into the future as I was workshopping it, then forgot about it entirely and posted a different one. I’m leaving it up here anyway because fuck, it already went up. Also, the post I ended up posting 10 years was actually this one. 

If you’ve ever wondered where Mount Vesuvius is, it’s in New York. Astoria, actually. On my chin.

It’s currently dormant, but at its worst, it bulged. Protruded. Occupied prime real estate. On the fourth day, it erupted and unleashed its swollen, pink fury in the Southeast. The masses fled.

Never one to let a couple of days of frolicking go visually undocumented, and never one to want to present the ugliest version of myself (on purpose), I accepted this photo-documenting challenge. At first, I went the usual menu-on-face route and the take-it-from-10-feet-away route. But soon, with Phil manning the button, I found funner, better angles.

Here is the result.

Mount Vesuvius, sufficiently conquered.


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