Hate to admit it. But truth will come out like a zit on your teenage nose. At an inopportune moment. Waiting to be busted. Only to leave you with an even worse, and bleeding, crater. The type that no concealer will conceal.
Come to think of it concealers are the con men of the beauty industry. Don’t argue with me. I know. I am currently out of circulation since my skin has erupted in ways I didn’t know were possible outside a Lepers’ colony. It’s fascinating. You go through life unblemished. And at the worst possible time (like now) when still young and beautiful, yes really, I turn into my own version of a nightmare.
Anyone with designs on visiting me: Forget it. I have put myself under house arrest till this is over. Will it be OVER? EVER? I have to hand it to the dermatologist, not the brightest spark in the circuit: Apparently it’s stress induced. Whatever that means. I don’t do ‘stress induced’ – the whole of mankind runs on adrenaline. Otherwise nothing would get done. And we’d long be dead in the cave. And if there is one thing to induce stress – by which I mean upset and DIS stressed – it’s when you can’t pacify your skin.
As I said before: See you in a mudbath. We’ll all be the same colour.
Damn. Damn. Damn and damn.
The above was NOT the point of this post. As usual I got carried away instead of telling you what I wanted to tell which I have now forgotten.
Share the pain. Isn’t that what Americans say? Don’t. Please don’t. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. God damn it. And I am not even vain. I am just used to being beautiful.
Ursula
