Like an Army of Ants Attacking Your Face

The dermatologist said I have acne vulgaris. I cannot have acne vulgaris. Acne vulgaris is for teenagers. I am not a teenager. I am 23 years old. But I have acne vulgaris. So they said they would use injection on the big ones. Wait a second, what? Injection? You have got to be kidding me.

You see, I have nothing against pimples. I do not give a rat's ass if I end up a walking pimple farm or pimples with a face. If we could harmoniously co-exist then I am okay with that. Be your very own facial tourists! I will be your island. But when they began to act like facial terrorists I knew I had to do something. But good old Panoxyl was not working anymore.

It must be the fact that the face is closer to the brain so that an accidental hand-to-pimple interaction feels like Pacquaio practicing his boxing skills on you. I cannot tolerate pain like masochists would happily do. So these facial tourists turned terrorists must die! I knew I needed help. I needed professional help! And so I ended up with the dermatologist and her arsenal of mini injections, a.k.a. pimple annihilators.
 

After applying an assortment of cold and warm gels on my face, she started poking it with semi-sharp metal thingies. Sometimes she dug deep, sometimes not so much. The injecting began after. I decided against escaping since I already paid.

I have had a big fear of injections ever since I was a kid. The thought of a long needle poking your skin is creepy. It is creepier when you think of worst-case-scenarios, one of which is where the needle refuses to retract and decides to stay inside your body. And then you would forever be setting off metal detector alarms in malls and airports.

The needle itself pricking you is not that painful. It is the medicine starting to flow inside the skin that makes your pain receptors go gaga. Like an army of ants attacking your face. That is how it feels. I felt it around ten times.

When the needle meets your skin, it is like a gentle ant engraving, Ant was here on your face, and then it bites you gently. When the medicine enters the picture, the gentle ant transforms into Satan ant and bites like crazy, angrily screaming, I said ANT WAS HERE you motherfather! like an attention whore denied acknowledgment of its presence.

After the eighth injection, my face was already feeling numb and I could not help but be squeamish laying like a helpless kid left at the mercy of an injection-happy freako person. I asked her if we were done. She said two more to go. After two more I asked her if we were done. She said not yet. Filthy liar! But then she clarified that she would mask me first, whatever that means. But the injection part was over. Relief! Hallelujah!

I could not move my face normally afterwards. Perhaps she mistook the Botox bottle for the pimple reducer bottle. Oh, shit. Did she? Well, I can still frown the next day so I think she did not. I would have to be back after two weeks and I am wishing that the damned pimples would leave on their own accord.

Terrorists are terrorists. We should never deal with them diplomatically, whether they are human terrorists or bacterial terrorists, regardless if they are wreaking havoc in a far-flung nation you never knew existed or right on your very own face! We should nuke them! And if Panoxyl nukes would not work then I would endure every injection nuke that would need to land on my face just to get rid of them. Damn you, pimples. I treated you fairly. You betrayed my trust. Now die! Die! Dai! Dai!