Germ warfare

Dear Thingy on My Lower Lip,

Hello. I suppose we should start with a proper introduction. I am the person you have decided to invade. Your home, where my chin skin meets my lower lip skin, belongs to me. I am, in a sense, your landlord.

You started as a wee, hard lump, barely detectable by any means other than by feel. I suspected that you were a clogged pore. Then I began to notice you more, like a young girl who suddenly has blossomed. It wasn't that you had grown or become more of a nuisance, it was just that I knew that you were there. Therefore, I had to pick at you.

It started two days ago, this insatiable need to touch you. I suspect it is somewhat like the comfort Phil feels when he strokes his beard. He says it helps him to think. Thingy, for a day or so, you helped me think. I couldn't stop touching you, though, so I must have done a great deal of pondering. After absentmindedly poking and rolling you between my fingers, a new thought emerged.

You annoy me, Thingy.

No one else could see you, but I knew you were there. I knew that whenever I bumped into someone, the first thought bubbling in my head would be, "Oh, man. Can he/she see this?" And then I would cover you up with my hand in embarrassment, therefore drawing even more attention to my insecurities.

I couldn't let you win, Thingy. I picked at you and gnawed at you. Before I went to bed last night, I noticed I had gnawed at a spot on my lip above where you live, rather than attacking your exact location. It's like dropping a bomb in a somewhat accurate manner instead of precisely where the terrorists exist. I suspect you are related to Bin Laden, Thingy. You thwart all of my "shock and awe" attempts to eradicate you by hiding in a hole under a carpet in your cave. You are tricky, Bin Thingy. Very tricky.

I dabbed a bit of lavender essential oil on you last night to help the healing process along. Normally, this is enough to heal any other blemishes I have on my face. You, however, are resistant to such meager attempts to kill you. Like Rasputin, you took the bullets and the attempted drowning, only to show up telling fortunes on a corner in Las Vegas. Or was that Elvis?

This morning, I awoke to find a much larger version of you, Bin Thingy. Today you are angry. You are inflamed with rage. You have puffed yourself up with pus and piss and vinegar, and you're not going to take it anymore. You've had enough of my fondling and pondering, and you're crazy with revenge that I applied floral scents to cover up your presence. You have called jihad on my face.

I realize that you are but one large colony of bacteria on the petri dish that is my body, but you are a collection of bacteria and pus that I can see. That others can see. You must die, Bin Thingy. I didn't invite this party. I'm calling your mom and she's going to be pissed that you were out this late.

So, as soon as you are too big for your britches and my face hurts from the pressure, you are going to be evicted. I think we know how this is going to end, Bin Thingy. I will grasp my fingers in a pincer movement, and, well... there will be an explosion. Your training camp will be blown to bits and possibly land on the mirror.

This will hurt me more than you, Bin Thingy. It really will. Just remember that.