How the fuck old do I have to be before all of the oil and grease-spewing holes dry up on my 45 year old face so I won't get anymore goddamn zits? I mean, what the shit?!
Friday afternoon, I notice a tiny little red dot on my cheek and I say to myself, "Hm... a little pimple. Bummer. Oh well... I haven't shaved in a while. Probably just an ingrown hair." Nasty but... fine. Saturday morning, I wake up and I'm growing a fucking elbow out of my face and the right side of my chin is swollen up like some granny's gout-y ankle. I looked like the fucking love-child of Jay Leno and Maria Shriver.
Now, I would've just ignored it but the fact that there was this major swelling along my jaw and the way that it felt kinda hot reminded me of the time I had cellulitis in my elbow, which was a fucking nightmare. And the fact that it was happening on my face this time, just inches from my already enfeebled brain... well, I thought I needed a second opinion. It was Saturday but, luckily, there's an urgent care place literally 3 blocks from the house, so I booked over there.
When I pushed open the H1N1-encrusted door, I was greeted with a sputum symphony of horks and hocks and instantly regretted stepping into what was basically ground zero for the next pandemic. Whatever I didn't have attacking my face before I got there, definitely mutated my genetic code by the time I left.
While I endured the 90 or so minutes it took them to call me back, I was able to diagnose the walking, er, seated dead with whom I was sharing this hell-mouth of a waiting room. There was Johnny Back-Strain, Connie Conjunctivitis, Rhea Diarrhea, Bobby Black-Lung and The Dead Lady. Oh, and there was the Boogersnot family.
Why I left my clean suit at home, I'll never know.
Eventually, I was called back and the nurse seemed somewhat relieved that, while I kinda looked Elephant Man-esque, I didn't seem like I was going to be spraying broncho-snot in her face. She took my info and then bolted, leaving me to wait for another 60 or so minutes for the "doctor" to show up. The doctor eventually did show up and, after I showed her my face-nodule and told her my story, she basically said, "Yeah... sure... could be cellulitis." Then she proceeded to give me a shot in my ass and wrote two prescriptions for two different kinds of penicillin. I don't think they would've given me that much penicillin if I had walked into that place with gonorrhea that I had caught from a tubercular leper but, hey, what the shit do I know?
So, I went home with all of my meds, ready to both combat my face-hump and begin to cultivate a penicillin-resistant super-virus in my colon. And here I sit, almost a week later -- the swelling is long gone but I still have a Milk Dud sized face-nugget lurking 'neath my week-and-a-half's worth of face-nugget-camouflaging beard. I figured the beard was the least I could do -- I was tired of my family projectile vomiting every time I turned my right cheek in their general direction. I think if I can get it to a nice, bushy Galifianikisian length, there's a good chance the beast will be sufficiently cloaked.
And now I must sleep, as the growth has made me weary.