| chanelesque ( @ 2007-06-14 19:39:00 |
| Entry tags: | design, itchy fingers, she he them |
030 a polka-dotted face
when i was young, my face was a blank canvas. i had a mouth, a nose, two ears and two eyes like all the rest, but there were no moles, and i was glad.
then i grew up (darn it all), and growing up proved to be trying, because moles started to erupt like ants all over the flawless emptiness of my forehead and cheeks, year by year, by the merciless rays of the accursed sunlight. more and more they came and multiplied, till i could joke, laughing but with a stab of bitterness and pain, that one could join the dots on my face to form a web of lines.




i sometimes wondered if by the age of forty, my face would have grown to be so immensely spotted as to bear a likeness to a regular almost pattern of polka dots. the horror! makeup would be a necessity. i would never be able to wear polka-dotted dresses again. instead of applying sunscreen (2nd below from left), or lugol's iodine (3rd from left), i did the foolish thing of attempting to cut them off with a pair of scissors (4th from left). the moles bled, discoloured, and raised themselves into horrid lumps.




i stopped after that. "your moles are cute," said sam one day, to which i grimaced in reply. though i have now learnt to live with them, i could never and would never appreciate the moles on my skin. blemish!