I’ve always felt a certain closeness to Bristol Palin. From the moment I saw her squirrelly cheeks, her pregnant belly, and the man-meat responsible for putting baby juices in her, I just knew she was someone I could secretly love. So when I heard yesterday that, like me, she had corrective jaw surgery to fix an unfortunate bite, I felt proud. Redeemed, even.

But like most news attached to the Palin name, word of this surgery quickly shot around the Internet, and a critical spin on the story emerged. The public assumption is that Bristol Palin received surgery in a sad attempt to transform from youthful cutie to full-grown hawty. And, yes, she has transformed. Before surgery she had pudgy cheeks and a chin that never stood a chance of poking anyone in the eye. Now she has the jaw of a woman who could confidently wear heels during sex. Her face has narrowed, her cheeks are now taut, and her smile is more refined. Because of the surgery she has more graceful, classic looks. I’d normally be among the legions of little people shitting on her intentions, but, well, the same exact fucking thing happened to me. I didn’t have my surgery in an attempt to become better looking, but I’d be lying if I called better-looks an unfortunate side-effect of the surgery.

I had my operation three years ago. After ages in braces and binders, my bulldog bite wouldn’t budge. So the oral surgeon laid the options on the table: Either have this medical procedure and change your bite, or leave your teeth the way they are and risk breaking them. There was mention of improper digestion, which was the clincher. Yes, in the back of my head I thought of my looks: my jaw was big (the opposite of Bristol’s dainty wedge), but it was also kind of distinctive. One might even go so far as to call my jaw “British looking.” So, with full health benefits in line, I had the fifty-thousand dollar surgery. It was the best and worst thing ever.

In addition to the pain, for six weeks I was unable to chew. On top of that I developed infections, and, oh yeah, one of my lungs collapsed during surgery. (“It’s really strange, but one of your lungs was just super weak and gave out as soon as we put the airtube down your throat,” is how the flighty nurse who greeted me when I awoke broke the news). Later, after six hours of surgery and loads of the painkillers that set me off on intermittent fits of Whitney Houston-style hysteria, I said to my dad through my clenched, swollen jaw: “I THOUGHT YOU SAID THIS WOULDN’T FUCKING HURT.” Then I wailed for a bit. For several weeks actually. (I’m emotional when drugged.)

Anyway, I could say more about the horrors of surgery, but I’d prefer you buy my book instead and read about it there. So back to our friend Bristol: I feel quite strongly for her. This surgery is a beast—the recovery even moreso—and the suggestion that this sort of thing is strictly cosmetic is a bit shortsighted. Do you know what they do in this surgery? For an underbite (what I had), they sawed out part of my lower jaw, on each side. Then, they bolted it back together. On the top jaw, more breaking was done, just to align shit; then, some non-sexual screwing. After surgery I was hideous, and I’m sure Bristol was too. There’s a difference between having your jaw operated on so that you can have a normal bite, and having a chin implant or some other kind of purely physical alteration. Jaw surgery is a practical surgery, and the potential hottttttnesss that follows is the reward for all of the turmoil. I’m not the glamorous type (been wearing the same undies for a couple of days now), and I had this surgery. I’d like to take a page from the Chris Crocker canon, and just scream at all of the B haters: “LEAVE BRISTOL ALONE.”

Girl just got aligned, okay? ‘Kay.

–Jason Zabel