Bitch on the Blog

August 21, 2012

In mourning

Filed under: Beauty — bitchontheblog @ 08:36
Tags: , ,

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.




  1. SORRY 😦 Not as bad as that guy (Job) in the Bible that had boils all over his body.

    Comment by bikehikebabe66 — August 21, 2012 @ 16:42 | Reply

    • BOILS? Thanks, BHB. There are small mercies after all.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — August 21, 2012 @ 17:09 | Reply

  2. You’re great at deflecting, U. Buddhists say to turn into the places that scare us or cause us pain and examine them. When we do that we see that, whatever they are, they aren’t permanent. Nothing is. Maybe that’s the problem?

    Comment by Lorna's Voice — August 22, 2012 @ 18:07 | Reply

    • And there I was, for a moment, thinking you said ‘great at REflecting’. You are not my father by any chance, are you? He is on my case now, big time, in the best possible way.

      I wish I were three (years old) and could legitimately stamp my feet. Not that I did at the time. Apparently I was sunshine herself. At the moment the cloud over my head drizzles. I so wish you will be right, Lorna: “…. they aren’t permanent”. I never thought it possible that sometimes life will throw you a ball you can’t catch. Well, it’s happened. It was thrown at me in a manner that I was not able to bat. The art now, and elusive, how to bleed without dying.


      Comment by bitchontheblog — August 22, 2012 @ 19:10 | Reply

      • Tell your father to go fly a kite. You aren’t 3 yrs. old & can lead your own life.

        Comment by bikehikebabe66 — August 22, 2012 @ 20:32 | Reply

        • You misunderstand, BHB. My father is a very discreet man. One who lets his children get on with their lives. He keeps his opinions to himself. He never preys into our affairs. But I am in an emotional quandry. One which he has offered to help me with.


          Comment by bitchontheblog — August 22, 2012 @ 21:24 | Reply

      • Oh, U. Women were built for bleeding without dying. It’s our thing.

        Whatever you are going through won’t last. I know from personal and extensive experience. Some wonderful moments slipped away and I mourned; some horrific moments descended on me or slapped me in the face and I made it through the other side a different (hopefully better, surely stronger) person. The sweet watermelon in my mouth never lasts. Nothing lasts. If that’s the only comfort you can find, take it.

        Comment by Lorna's Voice — August 22, 2012 @ 20:48 | Reply

        • Thank you, Lorna. You are so very kind. I could cry. I am crying. Unfortunately we all have to ‘grieve’ in our own time. And I take more [time] than some. As character defects there are worse.

          I just wish I could flick a switch. The Angel thoroughly fed up seeing me in this state. Men like to do things about things. They want a solution, a result. Which is so very touching. Yet whilst the brain tells me one thing, the heart overrules. It’s annoying. But there it is.


          Comment by bitchontheblog — August 22, 2012 @ 21:36 | Reply

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