Herpes are Cool

Word to the wise: never attempt minor facial surgery on yourself while under the influence (of alcohol that is. Heroine, PCP, Crack…those are all totally fine.)

Let me explain.

It seems that over the weekend I may have left out a few details. Like the part where the Boo decided to perform minimally invasive blemish extraction surgery on my face while inebriated. More specifically, on my LIP.

Now, here’s the part where I have to admit something horribly embarrassing but I’m sure more common than I suspect. Being that I’m part Italian I have dark hair. Really dark brown hair…in case you couldn’t tell from the pictures. Even worse, Italian’s are infamous for a few things: our cooking, our wine, our inability to use “inside voices” and a superfluous amount of hair. And while some of this hair may be glorious coifs atop the skull, some of us are lucky enough to have them grace us in other places.

That’s right folks. I have a stache.

I know what you’re thinking. Gross. And trust me when I say, I loathe it with every part of my being. Unfortunately, it’s part of my genetic makeup and so since about 9th grade I’ve just had to deal with it. (Is that high school bathroom stall lunch story making a little more sense to you now?)

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not some big Nietzsche mustache but it’s there and thus I have to take care of it every once and awhile. Well, I got lazy over the last few weeks and instead of just waxing the little pariah off like I should have, I said “to hell with it” and grabbed a razor.

I know, I know. Not my smartest move.

Weeks go by and I see two small black bumps forming on the exterior perimeter of my upper lip and of course, in my head I’m thinking, “Sweet baby Jesus, I’ve got ingrown hairs from my stache!!”

Of course, the presence of facial hair is pretty mortifying for any woman. I don’t want people thinking I’m some exhibit in a traveling freak show for Christ’s sake.

Well, Saturday night the Boo and I got a little wastey face, and by wastey face I mean belligerent. (Duh, that’s what vacays are for.) And for some reason, completely unbeknownst to me, alcohol seems to make the Boo’s already feline-like senses magnified by like 18.

Needless to say the acuteness in observation compelled him to point out my facial blemishes to which I responded with humiliation and a reservoir of tears ready to break at any moment.

Fully prepared to launch into my “How insensitive of you to point out my manly features? If you don’t love me for me then we shouldn’t be together” speech, the Boo announced that it wasn’t, in fact, an ingrown hair (he hadn’t even known I shaved my butchness away until I blurted it out) but rather, it was a black head. Correction, two blackheads.

Perfect. Fan-fucking-tastic. I’m a walking mosaic of crust.

In an effort to assuage my battered ego and the soon-to-accompany waterworks, the Boo went to work on my face. Keep in mind the man knows not the magnitude of his strength and I was trying to be a badass and will my pain threshold to further heights as he pushed and pinched.

What resulted? One removed blackhead within the first 20 seconds. But when he insisted that the other wasn’t raised enough to come out for awhile, I plunged ahead with the tweezers on my lonesome to remove the vile thing.

10 minutes later it was still there, bleeding, swollen, and mocking me.

And now, for the past 3 days, I look like I have a herpe.

Splendid.