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Barbie Explodes
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Barbie Explodes
Pin the Tail on the Donkey that had gone horribly wrong, or
perhaps they used the local butcher.)
The tummy tuck itself had given me the washboard
stomach I desired but my ribs were now sticking out. I
couldnt see any evidence of rib shaving, but after time my
waist did definitely go in.
I was already planning my next operation though, so I
wasnt that interested in this one anymore. I wanted the
biggest boobs in Britain. I wanted 1,000 cc implants: these
also allowed you to overfill them. Mr Reconstruction had
gone to some sort of surgeons exhibition especially to shop
for these implants. He said he could give me 1,200 cc if he
overfilled my boobs.
I was really excited, but I had to wait six weeks for the
tummy tuck to settle down before Mr Reconstruction would
agree to operate again.
This was when Mr Fix-It came in. I would drive to him in
the meantime, to feed my addiction, satisfying my thirst to
improve myself on a now daily basis. I would demand filler,
filler anywhere, my hands, knees, under my eyes, and then
Botox everywhere from my forehead to my armpits. We
would discuss possible operations that would fill me with
excitement, but I always went elsewhere for the bigger operations now.
I also discovered a top dermatologist, who extensively
worked on me. I split my time between LA and London; I
also had a team of surgeons in LA to whom I would go for
advice and who also operated on me. I had a herd of private
doctors ready to prescribe me under-the-table painkillers,
Roaccutane to get rid of my spots and Latisse for longer
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examine the new work. I lifted up my (even more) blood-splattered gown. This time I was bandaged. My pillowcases and
sheets were also marked where I was still bleeding. My bandages were drenched in blood and leaking through.
In a sick way I was pleased I had managed to squeeze not
one but two boob jobs into one day. Madness has no reason.
My boobs felt like I had sliced them off myself with a blunt
carving knife and stitched them back on, but they were no
longer exploding, nor were my veins popping out. Winning!
The nurse kept checking on my boobs and on me, looking
for any signs of further infection or that the silicone which
had leaked into my body had not been completely removed
by the surgery and had migrated into my lymph nodes or
other organs. My temperature wasnt high and she wasnt
injecting my arse anymore. These were all good signs.
The beeping of the machine sounded more positive as
Perma-smile repeatedly praised me for having a regular
heartbeat and a strong heart and said I coped ever so well
with it all. Story of my life, I thought.
I did, however, feel like a bus had run me over. In total I had
had seventeen hours of operations, with a little break in the
middle to almost die.
The nurses faces were a lot happier this time, especially
as they saw I was recovering. They were almost congratulating me for surviving. I thought, wasnt this all supposed
to be safe? That is what the anaesthetist told me: that it was
safer than crossing the road. Im not sure where he got those
statistics from but crossing the road was a damn sight easier
than this, and seemed a lot safer, long as you looked both
ways.
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still carried on. Maybe it was all part of the pain, the struggle
and the torture I seemed to like to put myself through.
Once home, feeling dizzy and ready to faint, I spent the
next four hours staring at myself, trying on different clothes
(everything youre not supposed to do) and styling my
unbrushed, hospital-blood-stained hair to suit my new-found
face. It was making me more depressed and frustrated.
This was another part of the ritual, you see. I was never
happy with the result and this time I was even less happy.
After surgery I always had what a drug user would call
a downer. I was so high with hope when I would have the
surgery and when the reality dawned that I still didnt look
like a Victorias Secret model I hit a low, a depressed manic
low, that only planning more surgery could get me out of.
When I finally saw Georgia she said: What have you done?
Nothing, why? I would say this every time.
Looks like youve had more surgery.
Dont think so.
Wed then go back to watching a film or eating our dinner.
She knew not to push me: you cant stop an addict, and
they get angry when confronted. They need you to not talk
about it, to make out everything is fine. The worst thing that
can happen is they are forced to see that they may have a
problem.
I never spoke about surgery to anyone apart from two
people: the newspapers and the surgeons.
The surgeons, I thought, got me, so obviously they didnt
think I was mad. Besides, they were my enablers, I needed
them. The papers, well, they seemed interested in my story. I
thought they were exaggerating when they would write their
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