Favorite pimple stories (maybe TMI)

Miscellaneous and Personal Stuff I Must Share
41

OK, I wasn’t going to share this, but you all have inspired me…

Last weekend I was showering in preparation for a tourist visit to Vancouver, BC. I didn’t notice, but must have popped/scraped open a pimple or ingrown hair.

I’m finished showering, and lift my foot up to the edge of the tub, when a large, perfectly round, dark red circle appears on the tub beneath me. Fascinated, I gape at it as it slowly loses it’s crisp edge, mixes with the film of water remaining on the porcelain, begins to drain way.

Then there’s another drop. Aha! I’m bleeding. But from where? While I’m trying to discern, Mrs. danalan remarks :eek:
You’re bleeding from your SCROTUM!
(An observation made possible by her position – on the throne, as it were)

Searching about, and after much wiping with the towel, I find a pinpoint that is just slowly leaking blood, indeed located on the left lower portion of my scrotum. No amount of application of pressure, application of toilet paper, or other ready method of staunching blood flow seemed to work. Meanwhile, the departure time to meet our tour bus is fast approaching.

Employing the ingenuity perhaps inherent in any SDMB’er, I solved the problem with a device I knew of, but had only encountered personally once before: A Panty Liner.

My previous encounter with A Panty Liner was as a cushion in a boot – not the same as my then adventure of figuring out which side goes where, and where to attach the device on my boxer briefs to acheive the desired result.

So, humiliatingly I ventured forth, only revealing my secret to Mrs. danalan several hours later, upon her inquiry as to my apparent restlessness. Panty Liners must fit better on women, because it was noticably not entirely comfortable on me.

So, four hours later, I’m in a museum restroom stall, removing the feindish device. It was soaked with blood. Soaked through. Apparently, I was having a heavy flow day.

42

Not a zit but a pop-goes-the-infection story.

Back in August of 1974 I was in basic training in the Army. We got a long series of shots with those air pressure gun thingies. One of mine got infected somehow. At first it was a small red spot. Then it got bigger and started to swell a little. It kept on growing until it was a large, flat, red lump with a tiny white spot in the center. It hurt my arm to raise it.

Not being the most accomplished of recruits I was reluctant to go on sick call and maybe get accused of malingering. So I got soap, water, hydrogen peroxide, a towel and a needle and went into the bathroom. I barely poked that little white spot and suddenly a stream of black, green, and white pus starts drooling down my arm. I hadn’t expected this much so I sort of just stared at it for a minute. But the girl at the next sink, took one look and shrieked her head off. I squeezed it until it ran clean red blood, then washed it and doused it in peroxide.

Next day at roll call my drill sergeant Ogg(honestly, her name was Sgt. Carol Ogg) asked to see my arm. The girl next to me had ratted on me. The swelling was down by then and my arm was more or less comfortable, so she just told me to go on sick call if it started up again. It did, a little bit, but this time I doctored it when nobody was around, and it healed up completely that time.

43

I can’t read anymore zit stories…I can’t not read any more zit stories

44

OK, here comes Broomstick’s Abcess Story (again)

I think it started as a bug bite, but truthfully, with a hide like mine with so many creative ways to break out, rash, or otherwise develop nastiness it could have been anything, really.

Well, a day later, I wake up at 2:30 in the morning and it’s like I have a ping-pong ball implanted under the skin of my cheek. Pain. Redness. An ominions black scab on the center of it.

So, of course I go into the bathroom to inspect it. This mother was so painful I couldn’t even touch my skin lightly, much less squeeze the sucker. After nervous consultation, the husband get’s a needle and a bic lighter for some home surgery because the wife is running around the apartment moaning in pain.

Well, that sucker is DEEP. And painful. And the husband can bring himself to get that needle deep enough to release the steadily building pressure.

A couple hours late I am throwing up from the pain. Mind you, I’ve broken bones and waited days to go to the doctor, so I’m not exactly a whimp in the pain tolerance department.

Dawn comes, the husband calls the doctor who says bring her in first thing. So there I am in the doc’s office, my eyes watering from the pain, and the ping-pong is now a softball. The doc goes “ooooo… that needs to be drained. Today. Let me call the hospital, I know this surgeon…”

This day is really starting to suck, you know?

So, we (husband and I) drive to the hospital. The surgeon looks at me. He pokes at the softball. I somehow resist the urge to cause Great Bodily Harm to the perpetrator of such pain. He goes “ooooo… I’m not comfortable operating where that is. Let me call this other surgeon…”

The new guy is a plastic and reconstructive surgeon. He and the first surgeon start talking about landmarks and nerves and nicking nerves and…

This day is NOT going well.

Eventually, I am ushered down to an OR

[continued on next post]

45

I wasn’t going to add to this post because my contribution just isn’t in the same league as my esteemed colleagues. But I had to chime in and agree that some of my best times in front of the mirror consisted of finding the correct position for my fingers and just the right degree of pressure to gently . . . oh who am I kidding . . . explosively hurl that irritant, assorted pus, blood and other bodily solids, fluids and gases onto the mirror with a satisfying splort .

Isn’t it odd that most of the females who responded to this thread are fascinated with popping zits, but are reserved about:
farting, burping, vomiting, etc.? I know I am. Carry on.

46

There’s this really stupid song-and-dance we women have to go through before getting surgery called the Great Pregnancy Question. An orderly type comes in and the dialogue goes like this:

“Are you pregnant?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes”
“You are abosolutely sure you are not pregnant?”
“Yes”
“When was your last period?”
Tell him/her
“So you’re sure you’re not pregnant?”
“Absolutely”
“Could you urinate in this cup so we can do a pregnancy test?”

I’m not even going to start into why this whole exchange is stupid. It should be obvious. Anyhow, after the verdict comes back, confirming my basic honesty, I ask what would happen if I HAD been pregnant.

“We would postpone the surgery until after you deliver.”

Uh, yeah. Right. I have this THING on the side of my face evolving into a basketball, obviously a virulent infection of some sort, discussion of involvement of vital facial nerves and you honestly think we’re going to DELAY the ice-pick treatment for 9 months? I don’t think so!!!..

A student plastic/reconstructive doctor (has MD, still getting additional training, forget exact term) comes in for a little discussion. They don’t really want to put me all the way under, although they will if I insist but that’s much more involved and–

“Hey, can you numb me up so I don’t feel any pain while you’re doing it, even if I am awake?”

“Yes.”

“OK, I’ll do it that way.” Mind you, the swelling is so bad by this time that my speech is starting to get messed up, I’m drooling, and my lower jaw has gone from hot-poker-painful to falling-asleep-tingling-numb as the infection continues to compress the nerve.

Well, I am told to dress in one of those stupid little paper gowns, although they allow me keep my pants on (how generous). I am led into an OR which reminds me of a bathroom I once used while drunk in Clermont-Ferrond, France (another long story). Bilious green tile up to eye level, everything scrubbed, drapped, etc. with big ol’ lights overhead. A nurse has me lie down and goes about draping me with bilious green sheets which helps because the OR is cold.

Well, the doctor comes in with the student doc and they start doing things as the nurse puts another sheet over me, this time over my face (most of it) “because we don’t want anything nasty to splash on you, especially in your eyes”. Oh, lovely, I really needed to hear that. But the nice nurse is holding my hand and I’m trying not to whimper. I just know this gonzo LUMP is sticking up out of a sea of sheets.

Well, the docs spray something on to numb the skin, warn me it’s going to hurt (always a bad sign when they say “hurt” or “pain” instead of “discomfort”), apologize in advance, then stab me with this 18 foot long harpoon — well it felt like that but it was just a teeny little jab with a teeny little needle. There’s this horrible nasty burning that still doesn’t hurt as bad as the Boiling Zit From Hell, then another jab, then another jab, with a dialogue like this (remember, I’m not talking to distinctly at this point):

“Can you feel this?” jab
“OW!”
“Can you feel this?” jab
“OW! You 'ASTARD!”
“Can you feel this?” jab
“'un uh uh 'ITCH!”
“Can you feel this?” jab
“MUDDER’UCKER!”
“Can you feel this?” jab
“Feel wha?”
“OK, she’s ready”

contiued on next post

47

Do you know what the sound of scalpel cutting through your flesh sounds like?

Take a piece of paper, s-l-o-w-l-y tear it in half in the loudest manner possible. That’s what it sounds like.

I am under many bilious green sheets. A nice nurse is having her hand squeezed by little old me. I am actually starting to feel better because of the local anesthia. The doctor says “don’t move”.

zhzhzhzhzhzhrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

There is actually a sense of pressure being relieved at this. All sort of numb and distant. Well, the docs are fooling around and I hear this:

“Oooo… look… there it is”
“Ooooo”
“Huh”
“Oh, it’s gonna a be a squirter for sure!”
(me) “Huh?”
“What did I tell you about comments when the patient’s awake? You - no talking, OK?”

Well, they get this water-hose thing going, sort of like what is used to clean filthy trucks at the drive-through car wash, and dither about the proper PSI to “clean it out”. (12 psi, in case you were wondering). They warn me there may be some nasty odors coming up.

Then, with an odd sort of reverence, they Pop the Zit from Hell.

It was this indescribable splorching, followed by a call for more towels and this frantic mopping up kind of activity going on. I mean, this thing SPRAYED because they were mopping the sheets over my forehead, my shoulder, down one arm… I was so distracted by the sound effects I neglected to register any odors.

But I felt so much better!!!

Wow.

Anyhow, I’m warned that there will be some tugging things going on. It feels like they are pulling the skin from my jaw to my cheekbone up into the air and pressure-spraying the muscles and stuff underneath. For all I know, that might even be what they did. They’re like rooting around in there, popping pus pockets, shooting water in there… this goes on for like 20 minutes. More mopping up.

They pull the sheet off my head. “OK, smile for me”

Uh, yeah, dude, I’m like having a really good day here but I go for a grimmace and - hey! The face works again!

“Good, good, excellent.”

At this point they start troweling this white goo into my face (feels like they excavated down to my teeth from the outside in), apply enough gauze to supply a MASH unit for a week, and ask me to sit up slowly. I’m escorted to a nice comfy recliner chair and told to sit quietly while the nice nurse watches to make sure I don’t just up and die on them. I’m sure I have a stunned look on my face.

to be continued…

48

There’s more…? :eek:

49

We need to start a moderator barf bag fund!

50

I am so glad that you enjoyed the page too! I am dissappointed that my husband and gf won’t grow one of those cysts for me. I do pick their zits. my favorite zit story of all time is the the case of the brain zit,but some of these come close

51

Jesus Mary Mother of God

:eek:

52

I’ll toss in my own little tale.

2 years ago, I noticed a small little bump on my chin. At the time, I thought it was a zit in development. I let it sit for a few days, but it didn’t seem to get bigger. However, as every month went by, I noticed it did get a little bigger.

As of about a week ago, it was a grayish lump the size of a small pea. I noticed a small whitehead on it, so I decided to go all out on it. For several minutes I squeezed and squeezed. I changed the position of my fingers to try and get more force on it. After about 15 minutes of ever increasing squeezing, it popped.

A little bit of pus oozed out, getting on my fingers. They started slipping, but that just made me squeeze harder. Suddenly, a chunk of hard yellow-brown stuff poked out. I grabbed this and pulled. It came out, followed by something else: The ends of about 20 ingrown hairs. I grabbed those and pulled. And pulled, and pulled some more.

Finally, I got a clump of ingrown hairs out of my chin, all stuck together with hard yellow-brown stuff. They were about an inch long! After getting those hairs out, I gave the lump some more squeezing for a couple more minutes, rewarded with an outpouring of fresh pus and white stuff, as well as 2 year old hardened chunks of stuff. Sometimes it would ooze, sometimes it would pop, and once it exploded all over the mirror. It looked like someone with a really stuffed nose sneezed snot all over the mirror.

That was a fun day.

53

I retire from the field. You win!!

54

I want to hear the end of Broomstick’s story!

55

OMG OMG OMG OMG
WHY DID I LOOK AT THAT
OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG

56

When we left our heroine she was huddled in a Recovery Lazy-Boy, half her face swathed in white gauze…

The doc pulled my husband to the side, telling him about how long the bandage needs to stay on, pain medication and antibiotics to pick up, and after care stuff. After an hour or two I was bundled into car and driven home and tucked into bed. On my way out of the hospital I had been presented with a small stack of “surgical drapes” and advised to lay them on the pillow prior to retiring.

Why? Well, let me just say your face is not supposed to go sploooorsh when you roll over, but if it does, you want something between your oozy self and your favorite, pus-absorbant bed linens.

That went on for three or four days. It was really really disgusting.

Anyhow, the bandage stayed on for two days. By the time the anesthetic wore off my husband had returned from the drug store with My Friend Codeine and an assortment of drinkables (must replace lost fluids, of course). I was under strict orders to do nothing but sleep, drink, and eat for at least four days.

Day two it was time to change the bandage. In accordance with doctor’s instructions, the husband had doped me up good about an hour before, so I’m sitting in the bathroom muttering "You’re my friend… you’re my friend… I love everybody… " He’s peeling off the icky, pussy gauze and somehow the brief look of utter shock on his face penetrated my Barney-like haze of bliss.

“Oh, no! It’s really horrible isn’t it? I’m gonna be all scarred up and- and- BWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!”

“No, honey, it’s just really ooky it’s not that bad it’s just infected it’ll be OK --”

He’s really good at damage control. Anyhow, he got me back into the Barney-bliss state and was wiping at the surface goo. Then we had to move to the Debris Removal Stage. That’s using water under pressure. He’s got me in the shower (easier secondary clean-up), I’m back to “You’re my friend…sunshine and butterflies… puppies and kittens…” You could drop a safe on my foot and I’d probably giggle.

>SQUIRT!<

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGHHH!

“Honey, let go of the ceiling tiles and come back down here… we have to finish this”

While in retrospect, the next 15 minutes of chasing me around the shower stall with a water-squirter leaving trails of oozy, pussy, bloody nastiness splattered around the bathroom tile has a certain morbid humor, at the time it wasn’t very funny.

We had to do this three times a day for several months. The husband must love me. He held me down three times a day, caused me intense pain, listened to me whine, whimper, beg, plead, and shriek, washed the most indescribably icky shit out of my face, retroweled this smelly medicinal paste into the wound, rebandaged me, and smoothed down my feathers telling me that I would get better and that I’d always be a beautiful person. Me, I was ready to kill him, except I felt too sick and icky to be that ambitious.

Meanwhile, in between treatments, I was producing so much pus that the bandages weren’t soaking it all up. The pus would ooze out and run down my neck. The first week we used a LOT of gauze, and it all smelled AWFUL, like rotting meat (which, in a way, it was sort of).

After four days, I returned to work. Why, I don’t know - I probably could have milked this further. I must have looked like hell because I didn’t even get any dumb questions. The problem was, the first two weeks back to work once or twice a day the damn pus would overflow the bandages. I’d feel a trickle starting down my jaw or neck and leap up, running like mad for the bathroom.

I usually tried to swap gauze bits when no one else was in the room because this really was too gross, but one time someone walked in on me.

Now, you have to know what this wound looked like. It was 1 and 1/2 inches long, a half an inch wide, and 3/8 inch deep (my husband the engineer had to measure it, you know?). When it was cleaned out you could see pus reforming and oozing up from the bottom even as you looked. (This was the initial appearance - it did get better as time went by)

Miss Walk-In expressed disgust that I would be wiping the worst of the Volcanic Pus off my face and replacing the bandage in the >gasp!< ladies’ room and expressed an opinion that I should not be doing such things.

“LOOK, BITCH, I DID NOT GO OUT AND GET THIS CRATER ON MY FACE FOR FUN. IT’S UGLY AND PAINFUL AND I CAME IN HERE SO I CAN TAKE CARE OF IT IN PRIVATE WITHOUT GROSSING EVERYONE OUT SO JUST DON’T F***** LOOK, ALRIGHT? IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE THAT NEXT TIME I’M CHANGING THE BANDAGE SITTING ACROSS THE TABLE FROM YOU AT LUNCH - GOT THAT?”

Did I ever mention I get cranky when I’m hurt and/or wounded?

[to be continued]

57

You guys totally grossed out yet, or does anyone want the final installment?:slight_smile:

58

Oh my god, Broomstick, there’s more. You sure know how to do a cliff-hanger. Spreading it over two pages was a master touch.

I read each installment, thinking that this would be the end for our hero, and then you’d leave a teaser that more was coming in the saga of the incredible Super-Zit.

You damn well better finsh the story. If you don’t, I will hunt you down and pop an oozing whitehead all over you.

59

broomstick - I hope by the time we get the final instalment of this, you will have told us exactly what ‘it’ was - AND what caused it and all the other absolutely necessary gory details.

60

I want to know the end, Broomstick!!