Adventures in Dermatology


My off-the-deep-end primary doctor sent me (by SENT, I mean he actually scheduled a consultation) with Dermatology, to have my suspicious (ooooooo ahh…) moles checked out.

To me, they look like perfectly well behaved law abiding skin specks.

What do I know?

Dermatologist- Your specks look like perfectly well behaved law abiding skin citizens. [I knew that] but you have acne *here and *here and *here… [No, shit. It’s been there for 30 +years… or forever. I don’t even see it anymore]

She plays the ‘connect the dot’ game on my face… and I didn’t even ask to play.

Because, I’m 46, that’s why.

“Ain’t nobody got time for acne at 46.”

This is precisely why Cover Girl invented face paint for warrior women.

I’m half way to DEAD for fucks sake.

Just take me out back and shoot me.

I was handed a bag of complimentary acne cream samples, which I accepted graciously and will definitely use.

Which is as close as I’ve ever gotten to a real spa experience.

No shit.

I’m a spa virgin. (A pig-headed do-it-yourselfer)

So, I’m feeling pretty freaking pampered right now.

Plus, I’m pretty sure I got extra credit for being a shade whiter than Casper the Ghost.
(which is synonymous with pale-New York-Honkey-in-March skin color)

And, just as scary.

Signs that you might have PMS

Signs that you may have PMS.

* You can toast marshmallows with your breath.

*Your default response to EVERYTHING is… fuckoff and die.

*Your secret chocolate stash looks like it was ransacked by Bigfoot except it was actually you.

*Everyone in the house are wearing crucifix’s… including the dog.

*The snowman is reduced to a puddle when you walk by.

*Your only emotion is RageSobLaugh simultaneously.

*You roll your morning Prozac in chocolate because you’re desperate.

*You consider slashing a biker dudes neck with your hang nail because he’s in your way, but you spare him when you remember there’s no chocolate in the Big House.

(To be continued… in 28ish days.)