Attempts at Vanity, Rants and Whimsy

What the hell do you think you’re doing on my chin?

July 28, 2016

Frankie Pimple-24

You know the feeling. It tingles. It tingles and you can feel the pressure building.  You can feel it coming and you panic.

What the fuck are you going to do? You’ve got nothing. You’ve let your cleansing routine go the last few weeks as you started a new routine of going to bed late with the remnants of 17 cheap ice creams still poking out from the corners of your mouth. Of getting up late and washing your face with whatever was handy from the shower cubicle in the morning. You sowed the pimple seeds and now you are reaping a full harvest of disgusting. You have no plan, no idea of how to head this off at the pass.

So you revert back to the same plan you had when you were 14. You smear the entire area with toothpaste as it’s all you have to fight with at this late hour. Not just the tingle, but the whole postcode of your chin. You mix and smear it into your foundation until your whole face smells decidedly minty for the rest of the day. Why use reasonable force when  you’ve got this hydrogen bomb just sitting here not being used?

If we’re going to start asking questions, why the fuck are you are still fucking dealing with this nuisance? You’re 30 and this wasn’t the plan. The ladies at the makeup counter are always giving you the anti-aging free samples. The crow’s feet cream. The “plump that shit up before it betrays you entirely” serums. Nobody’s given you pimple cream in an age. Your chin has gone off road without a map.

You wait. It goes dry. Then the rest of your chin goes dry. Sahara desert dry. Your chin is a barren wasteland and nothing would dare to grow there. Baha! You shriek a little in jubilation. Surely, you’ve won.

It peels. You went in with the toothpaste too early. It’s made an entire fucking mess of your face and you are forever picking large portions of skin from your chin. In public. This is as attractive as it sounds.

The pus-y essence of pimple is still there though, below the surface. It begins to seep through. Because you’ve nuked the top layer of skin you have no defense and there is no containment of pimple juice. The oil runs down your face continuously through the day, your shiny chin standing out like a beacon of revulsion.

It goes on forever. You drench yourself in Sudocrem every night hoping for forgiveness. You tell yourself you will stop picking at the dry skin. The Sudocrem will help you heal. This will all be better by morning. You repeat this like a mantra in the mirror.

When morning comes you pick the excess skin off the scab, thus undoing the good work of the night before. You’re a fucking mess and you can’t be trusted.

You try to cover it with concealer. It’s shiny. The kind of shiny that won’t accept any coverage, but would rather let everyone know what a skincare failure you are. You find a foundation stick from years ago wedged down the back of your makeup bag. It is most likely out of date and definitely the wrong colour, but you can build it up and glob it across the lower portion of your face. It hides. Sweet jesus, it hides.

It also kind of holds position. That is, until you accidentally go to scratch your nose and smear your chin with your wrist at the same time and then the game’s up. You have foundation on your sleeve and a weeping sore on your face . Fuck it.

Finally, after what seems like years of torment, it all starts to look good again. It’s healing. Your chin has a sunnier disposition on life and seems to be responding well to your regular make up. Yes, it’s still dry and flaky in appearance to those who are up close and personal (read: the person who knows your pubic hair situation and the 57 people standing next to you on the tube every morning) but things are looking up.

You wake one morning and find the skin has healed enough for a big white head to finally appear. It’s the most disgusting thing you’ve ever seen in your life. If you were the type of person to eat breakfast you definitely wouldn’t be doing so today.

You poke it and prod it like a mad woman, defiantly squeezing out the pus. There is no way you’re letting this bastard live on your face. It keeps weeping, long after your poking has ceased.

You’re back at square one.

Fuck you, face,

Fuck you.


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