Two things to note about Botox:  1) Botox is a wonder drug and 2) You haven’t really lived until you’ve had a nurse veer directly at your eyeball … with a needle … filled with poison. 

For years I was a naysayer about the miracles of controlled botchulism.  I figured I’d be better off slathering four day-old mayonnaise left in the sun on my face.   But now, I’m hooked.  It’s impossible to stop.  It erases five years off my face in less than a dozen needle pokes.   Who can argue with that? 

When people quiz me about Botox, it’s always the same question.  “Does it hurt?”  My answer varies between, “What do you think, dumbass?” and “Well, it isn’t exactly enjoyable, but it’s oh-so worth it.” 

Besides reducing and/or halting my wrinkles, the toxin also has a slew of other medicinal purposes.  Doctors use it to stop facial tics, lessen migraines, treat spastic disorders like MS or cerebral palsy or even help cure incontinence.  And to think all I wanted was a few less crow’s feet around my eyes.

My parents think I’m insane.  They remember all too well when I had full-blown botchulism poisoning as a youngster.  (I ate some bad fettuccine alfredo.  To this day, just the thought of alfredo sauce makes me throw up a little in my mouth.)  I was sick to the point where I didn’t leave the bathroom for nearly 24 hours.  I threw up my spleen.  I broke major capillaries in my face.  I thought I was going to die.

Now years later, I’m paying a crap-ton of money to have the same thing put directly in to my face.  God, is life good or what?  The effects will last for three to four months, and then I have to do it all over again.  Gladly.  Willingly.  Painfully.