Zits are migrating around my face. On Saturday, the four stop by my hairline for some weaving classes, iced tea and idle chat. By Wednesday, the zits have completed the slow march to my chin, where they bunk up with the blackheads to discuss innovative strategies to employ against salicylic acid-infused Arbonne face wash. Today, ah, today it appears they’re moving back up the right side of my face. It’s like the Oregon Trail for pimples. Minus the tuberculosis and buffalo. To my utter delight, new zit has decided to join the party. He was born sometime during the night, a strong, strapping boy, and is currently residing on my forehead.
I don’t know what this shit’s about, but I’m nearly on the edge. The dermatologist edge. It takes a lot to get me there. I haven’t been since seventh grade, when an overzealous Derm Doc used a sharp instrument on my horrified face. But this is pretty bad, and everytime I think it’s getting better…. Nope, I realize the zits have just moved to a new location.
On a less, “Ewwww,” and more, “Fuckin’ EWWWW” note… Last night, I went out to the back patio for a cigarette, a few swigs of Diet Coke and a chat with the husband. I felt a pinch, right on my upper thigh, where it’s kinda fat. It hurt, but felt like just an asshole mosquito, digging his mosquito talon in with extra force just to be a dick. Au contraire, friends. I brush my leg, look down, and see this scurrying away:
Enjoy your Thursday.