Saturday, I worked a double shift. I decided to shower the night before, a handy little trick I use when I like to do other things, like sleep until the last possible second. It frees up my mornings for hobbies of mine like praying that the kettle will boil faster, so I can have my morning coffee faster. That, and staving off a herd of dogs who are just so damn happy to see me that they near wet themselves (and hence, my mother's kitchen floor) every time I walk into a room.
I started my day by stumbling into the washroom to adhere to my daily regime of washing my face with super-powered acne wash, and then coating it in a thick, clear ointment that smells like a mixture of nail polish remover, diesel fuel, hand sanitizer, and moonshine. Once applied, it feels like a mixture of bleach and milkhouse acid, and sort of has the same effect on my skin. It causes it to dry and peel off my face, leaving behind flesh that isn't quite as acne-ridden as it used to be, but looks like it belongs to a pubescent fourteen year old nonetheless.
During this process on Saturday morning, I managed to get either the wash or the ointment IN MY RIGHT EYE. The left eye, it managed to escape unscathed. But my right eye was BURNING all day long, a sensation that was unpleasant and left me feeling quite cranky.
I've decided, once more, to work on accepting the fact that now that I'm 23, this is probably not just teenaged acne. I made this decision when I was 19, when I was 21, and again now. Which means that every other year, I lapse into denial about my skin. I'm beginning to see a pattern here, and you know, I'm comfortable with that. I like denial, and I like things to be on schedule and in order. So, I suppose it works.
And all this talk of acne leads me to think about Kami, the bird dog. Kami has had this growth on her head for a couple of weeks now. My father, God bless him, has been saying that it is a wart, caused by age. And you know, typically I don't disagree with my dad, generally because he's had more experience with dogs and warts, and because I'm depending on him to take care of my horse for me while I'm at work. But really, an age wart on a five year old dog? I've been skeptical, to say the least.
So tonight I was examining this growth as she lay neurotically in my lap, chewing on her nails and curled up into a ball of anxiety and panic. We are not very much unlike, this dog and I. And I just had to look at it more closely, I just had to give it the slightest squeeze...
And a veritable avalanche of puss and nast came pouring out of the top of my dog's head, something that reminded me of cottage cheese and chocolate milk mixed together in a revolting mound ... not unlike the cherry on top of the sundae, or the meatball on top of the spaghetti.
I simultaneously felt like I was going to vomit all over her puss-covered head and like I deserved some kind of medal. I shrieked for my nephew to bring me a tissue, and I gave it another little poke, and out came more of this filthy nastiness that words can't begin to describe.
I wiped off the dog and ran to the washroom, where I washed my hands for about five minutes consecutively; I scrubbed with a brush, rinsed off the soap, added more soap, used extra hot water, and I scrubbed until the nausea went away.
And afterwards, when I was able to calm down and get over the disgust, I could feel nothing other than complete pleasure and happiness in what I had acheived. The growth appears to have shrunk down, and is no longer glaring out from under her hair like a teacher glaring at a twelve year old boy who is giggling over the word 'sex' in the dictionary. What's more, I WAS RIGHT, DAMMIT. It wasn't a wart. So there.
And now if you'll excuse me, I need to go and scrub my hands some more. Because writing down this experience was almost like reliving the disgustingness all over again.