Call me obsessive, but I've just reached 19 (that's 19 – count 'em) spots. And that's just on my face and neck. God knows what my arse looks like. They're not your normal spots either. They're the pulsing, painful, Belisha-beacon kind. There are satellites in space monitoring these bad boys. They're red (no – they're maroon) and they're raw and they're on every corner of my Chevy Chase. One sneaky bastard has even made it into my ear. Last night I Cliniqued the arse off my skin, which will either prove a blindingly brilliant zit-clearing move or the Stupidest Thing Ever. That said, I did just read on the side of my bottle of toner that it's designed to 'increase cell turnover' and, since healthy cells are the one thing I'm lacking right now (well, that and good looks), perhaps it was neither smart nor stupid, and just a needless waste of some very expensive purple liquid.
What is it with all this enforced ugliness, anyway? The bad skin, the grey pallor, the lank hair, the flaky gums... man, I am hot. Oh, and the wonky chest, too. I'm every whistling builder's dream. P is, of course, having to use every shred of determination to keep his hands off me right now. Willpower of steel, that one. It's a damn good job I'm not well enough to go into the office at the moment because, looking like this, I'd be making up some pretty good excuses to stay indoors. ('Really sorry, boss, but I just can't make it in today. Yeah, I've got a really dodgy face. Best to keep me away from the clients.')
Don't be thinking that it can't really be that bad, either. Granted, I may be prone to the odd exaggeration, but there's no getting around this one. I am getting uglier by the day. And if you're preparing to give me all that you're-still-beautiful-to-me stuff, save your breath. Seriously, try looking me in the face and telling me that.
Sort it out, scientists. What the hell is keeping you? You can send tourists to space, you can clone sheep... hell, you can make Posh's tits stand up like that (thanks, Isaac Newton, but your work here is done). So tell me, boffins, whose idea was it exactly to skip past the Making Chemo Bearable module and instead goof around growing human ears on the backs of mice? Or is this some sort of reverse-Weird Science experiment to create a hideous troll of a woman who'll actually consider getting off with one of you geeks? Because, well done, it looks like it's working. Get your lab coat. You've pulled.