if you're not a penguin...shut it - Floating My OWN Boat v.2

There are a million tiny little mites with scratchy feely tingly legs crawling around on the entire T-zone of my face, taking far too numerous side trips up my nose and into my sinuses.

This is good. This is great. This means that my poor banged up face is well along the path to healing and strangers will stop staring at me with frank and morbid curiousity shining out of their eyes. It means that the light of a new smooth and whitely-pale and freckled expanse of skin is blinking at the end of the tunnel.

You don't know what sheer HELL such good news means until you find that you cannot touch your face, poke a finger (or even a Q-tip) in your nose to scratch like a flea-bitten dog (while no one is looking, of course), rub your face on your sleeve, or even just pinch your nostrils together in the hopes that scootching everything around WILL END THE PURGATORY THAT YOUR LIFE HAS BECOME.