I found someone on Amazon, today, who’d left the same review on a book and a tube of acne cream. (Neither had cleared her complexion.)
I’m assuming she reviewed the book first, realised what she’d done, and went back and did the Zit-B-Gone. But, Jesus, I’m glad she left the original. It was like…oh, how’d it go?
I rubbed this product on my T-zone in the morning and before bed, twice a day as directed. It left a flaky residue, which was embarrassing at work and inflamed my cystic acne. I got hives on my neck and the backs of my hands. There was also an odour, a distinct camphor/mothball smell, and a few people asked “what’s that smell?”.
Two stars. Avoid.
That was the gist of it, the hives, the smell, the face-rubbing. But picture that shit on a book review site, and you’re all—you can’t help but see yourself doing the book cure, skin-blotting, nose-wiping, print on your brow. And you know it’s not right, you know it’s a fuckup, but you just can’t stop seeing it, this book-face disaster.
I still can’t stop laughing.
I rubbed this product on my T-zone.
I feel like I…like there needs to be a demonstration. Like, I want to see that. It’s embarrassing, but I read that review and reached for a book, and I rubbed it on my face. I did, just…I can’t say why, exactly. I felt good, I suppose. I was laughing. I wanted a book in my face.
(The book was The Yiddish Policemen’s Union. I wiped The Yiddish Policemen’s Union on my face.)
Nothing else happened today. I bought one book and faceplanted in another. That will be all.