Thursday, March 10, 2016

Face off

I've always been a picker—of skin and nails both. I have welts on my body from scabs picked until puckered. 

I have a beauty on my face, a fat raised scar weal from three years of spaced out face picking, with the remains of dead boils joining like two black holes to form a thickened ridge of scar tissue that gives maximum joy to worry at. 

But then the fucker evolved into two ridges, with a valley of new tissue between, and the left-most ridge was so puckered that it felt I could just rip it off my face in one mighty tug. 

So that's what I did with my spanky new pink tweezers; clamp, t-e-e-a-a-a-r-r-r, no more left ridge. 

Of course the result was bloody, a torn scrape-off my face where beard hair can no longer grow, the hole noticeable and aglow with red.

The relief wash of it gone is epic, but I've set myself a ride of pain for sweat will runnel and wound will scream when the salt oozes over. 

Good one, Memo.

UPDATE: It stung like fuck.

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