Band-Aid on a sucking chest wound

I look disgusting, y’all. I think I know what happened. Well, I know what happened: my face exploded into a pizza-pie, and I have pimples everyfuckingwhere–you’d think someone were getting married, or I had school pictures or something, from the state of my face. Usually it knows when I need to make an appearance somewhere. But I think it’s from the skin bleach I bought.

Gryphon and the Mock Turtle

Once, I was a real turtle, and I didn't look like a leper.

Yes, I am vain. Wanna here my tale of woe?

So. The Acenfy was really getting me down. The dermatologists at my HMO stopped taking my calls. So I got some shit at Sephora that was supposed to help me “take control” of my zit shit. So I bought nearly $200, yes, two hundred clams worth of shit, for my face, for my bacne, for everything. I fucking committed. And I started using it. Everything started to get better!

I figured if I used a scrubber, it would be even better, right? NO. The answer is, “No.” It will make everything so much worse. And Seer, she scars purple. So now I’m all scarred up all over my jaw line. But the company, they make a skin bleach for your acne scarring. So I decided to try it. I try it on my chest. It seems to help. But I notice, all these blackheads I didn’t know I had on my chest seem to be rearing their tiny heads and demanding that I take note of them. They will no longer be ignored! Gross. I have blackheads on my chest. Disgusting. At least now they can heal.

So I decide, cautiously, to try the bleach on my neck. I’m a brown woman, and I’m a little weirded out by using skin bleach on my fucking face. It raised a crop of disgusting zits all over my neck, but these ones were doozies. Deep, cystic pimples that will not go away in three days.

But I must have gotten some on my face. I must not have washed my hands after I applied the moisturizer to my neck and chest, because my face looks like a Crisco crop-duster attacked it. It is awful. Like there’s gravel underneath my skin. Hideous.

I have a sulfur clay mask on my face right now. You’re supposed to leave it on for ten minutes. I’ve had it on for almost an hour and a half. Like that’s going to fix it! Like I’ll wash it off and the zits’ll come off, too. Clay mask on this broken skin is like putting a band-aid on a sucking chest wound.

I don’t have pictures to take, but I do have two important meetings this week! Happy happy, joy joy. At least one is with the bitch who has two pounds of greasy asshat on top of her head. Serious, I’m tempted to ask her, “What brand of dry shampoo do you use?” just to have the opportunity to discuss dry shampoo with her, because no one needs it more than she.

So that’s my problem. Poor me. Pakistan is under water and I’m moaning about my face. Everyone kind of forgot about Haiti and their devastation–remember that? Oh yeah!–and I’m worried about a few pimples. Russia is having a terrible grain harvest and what am I complaining about? Yeah, shut the fuck up, bitch. With your whiny ass.

At least my nails look really good right now.


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