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DAY 121: Photos and scarring



DAY 121

I came home from work 25 minutes ago and spent the past 25 minutes prodding a giant turd in the toilet bowl with the loo brush in order to unclog it. Sometimes I wonder what I did in my previous lives to deserve these sorts of things. It has to have been pretty bad. Multiple murder, at least.

Now, in the unlikely event that anyone's noted my two week absence, and in the unlikelier event that anyone was concerned by it, I've managed to avoid ditches and death and have instead been incredibly busy doing things that are so important that I cannot even recall them. Idling and watching TV, probably.

On the acne front, I'm still baffled by how different my face looks post-wash to how it looks after it's been untouched for long periods. I think I've been so selfish lately with my photos that it's only right I share with you what I mean.

Post-wash photo

Untouched for long period photo

I mean, I'm actually quite happy with the improvement when looking at the second photo. Here's what that side of my face looked like at the start of my course. Not miraculous, I agree, but it still makes me feel slightly giddy with joy.

What doesn't make me feel giddy with joy, however, is this issue of scarring/pitting. A couple of evenings ago, I looked in the mirror and was shocked by this. Even more shockingly, this is me with make up on, albeit make up that's been rubbed off a bit. Only last week I watched an interview with the woman who inspired the TV series Secret Diary of a Call Girl, and I remember thinking, "She'd be really rather beautiful if she didn't have heavily pitted skin," which is an awful thing of me to think, and now look at me. Could karma be this efficient? Anyway, it really upset me, seeing my face like that. Then the next morning, it looked like this. What the fook? Is my skin mutating before my eyes? I think it must be down to the fact that I often rub my face quite hard in the evenings (strange as well as bad, I know), but I didn't expect it to make it look like this. In desperation, I started using Bio Oil on my scars. I have no idea whether I am meant to do this, and I'm sure some of you will gasp in shock at the idea of putting oil on my face, but it's worth a try. Mind you, using it to get some of those craters out is like putting it in my ear cavity and expecting it to close it up. Either way, I'm appalled. I really am. I'm also pretty sure these scars are from spots that inhabited my face a long, long time ago, as I've not had anything crazy-big there since I've been on accutane. Bleugh. It makes me sick. I better hold onto Pedro. No one will love me now. Just kidding. I do try to be more positive than that.

In other news, I have my dermatologist appointment on the 9th. I have no idea how he will gage my progress with my make up on, so I'm thinking of making him privy to my little snaps. Perhaps I should link him to this log, too, in case he fancies getting the real low-down. Ha. As if. Although, it would be fun if I had the guts to do that. I cannot imagine how he would respond to me insisting he visit my lengthy log and handing him a URL on a post it note. It would be mildly entertaining to see him looking awkward, but knowing my luck he'd actually check it out and strike up a conversation with me next time about the entry on my genitals. Pardon the pun.

It was my great grandmother's 101st birthday last week, and apart from genes, it would seem we have another thing in common: painful mobility. For some reason, I still get a joyous tingle when I'm duped into believing I've had glorious exercise due to the overall pain, and it's only soured slightly by the subsequent realisation that it's not my muscles that are hurting, but in fact my joints. Argh. That thought freaks me out a bit. Needless to say I groan and grimace at every opportunity in order to gradually build up a metaphorical flask of sympathy from Pedro that I can then redeem in the form of favours (not leaving giant turds clogging up the toilet will be a future one). Yet despite my compromised mobility, I've been to two weeks' worth of cuban salsa classes so far. Forced to dance with every man taking the class, I've already had more eyes on my breasts, sweaty, quivering hands on my shoulder blade and overly minty breaths on my neck than any woman should face in their lifetime. Still, it's a lot of fun and I'm looking forward to the far-off day when I actually look half decent doing it. What hasn't been fun about salsa, though, is being made to demonstrate my moves to the iPhone-prying girl on reception, who's been dancing salsa for years ("You shouldn't do cuban," she said. "No one really dances cuban these days." Not like me, that's for sure.)

In miscellaneous news, I saw Avatar a few weeks ago and really, really enjoyed it. The effect's worn off a bit now, but I did declare at the time that it was the best film I'd ever seen. I cried through it like a real champion.

I've also been watching The Bachelor. It's the biggest, steamiest, foulest load of crap on TV, brimming with desperate, soulless individuals, but my God is it entertaining. I am secretly hoping that Gia wins, because I like her the most, but then I realise that the prize is Jake, and I struggle to understand how that can be considered a prize.

Oh, Pedro's home now, so there's my concentration gone. He just told me he bought some new mittens, before adding that it wasn't very nice of me to send him a text message starting with the sentence "Two days in a row now your poo's blocked up the toilet."


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