My morning dream soused ritual starts with showering for as long as the hot water lasts, staring at my feet, running my hands over my skin and meditating. Or fretting. When Violet isn’t home I sing torch songs to myself pretending the steam filled room is a very clinical looking piano bar.
As I run my hands over my skin, invariably they will brush over blemishes that are picked at until any offending pus or pimple is extracted; and if neither will be removed it remains a site of obsession for future showers. Stepping out of the shower and into my dripping blotched reflection, I swear to myself I won’t do it next time; though no matter the promises or tears over not being a smooth skinned beauty, my fingers find these weak points and pick until blood is drawn then washed down the drain. Diluted like my intentions, stronger than homeopathy.
The next task is to cover the redness, swelling and scabs. My make up draw rivals most of the counters at David Jones, but instead of being neatly racked up and gestured at by smooth skinned beauties it sits in a pool of plastic and is snatched at clumsily, frantically, by a fat lady with acne. I fish out green concealer to neutralise redness and mix it with a light-medium concealer, dabbing it on lesions. I look like a zombie trying to cover her rotting flesh for a job interview as human on a casual part time basis.
2092
THIS IS REALLY HARD