The Reality of Discount Botox: My Experience

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Ah, the allure of a Botox Groupon. “Hmm? You look like you have a question. What’s on your mind?” After countless meetings filled with this same inquiry, it hit me: my face was stuck in a perpetual state of confusion or despair. Why? A deep wrinkle between my eyebrows that could rival the Grand Canyon.

I’ve never considered myself vain, but that wrinkle had become my obsession. Was it too much to want to appear as though I hadn’t just received devastating news? I envisioned meetings where no one looked at me with pity, where they didn’t assume I was battling some dire health issue.

So, I made a choice: I was going to get Botox. But I wasn’t about to break the bank for it. My solution? Groupon! Discounted services from people looking to fill their appointment slots? Seemed like a good plan.

I scored a fantastic deal and headed to the unmarked office, my forehead furrowing deeper with each step. Upon entering, I was greeted with a chaotic scene: a man, whom I’ll call Sloppy Steve, was administering injections to another client who bore a striking resemblance to a crumpled paper bag.

“Got your Groupon?” he asked, barely looking up. I waved my coupon like a white flag of surrender. “Take a seat; I’ll be with you shortly.”

As I sat there, I watched Sloppy Steve retrieve three vials of who-knows-what and a needle. “Ready?” he asked, and I could only manage a weak “yes.”

Without any further ado, he started poking and prodding around my eyes. I felt a strange liquid slide down my face, and I panicked—was I now afflicted with rabies or some bizarre salad dressing sickness? I silently pleaded for forgiveness for my vanity as he wiped my face with a scratchy towel and sent me on my way.

Rushing to my car, I frantically called my friend, who also happens to be a psychologist. “I got discount Botox, but who knows if it was even the real deal from some sketchy guy in a dark building—” CRUNCH! I accidentally backed into a telephone pole while trying to explain my panic.

Miraculously, I escaped with no needle-related illnesses and avoided whiplash. However, my forehead wrinkle? Still there. Turns out, placebos don’t actually work on deep lines. After my accident, I faced a barrage of questions about what happened. “Um, I backed into a pole,” I mumbled, feeling a mix of shame and absurdity. How could I explain that I was chatting on the phone, convinced I was dying from black-market Botox?

Then came the universe’s way of teaching me a lesson about vanity. When I took my car to the mechanic, he looked at the dents and asked how it happened. A week later, I was still hitching rides from friends and sending my kids off with anyone willing. Finally, after ten days, I picked up my shiny, repaired car—only for it to not start.

“Looks like I drained the battery,” the mechanic said after three jump starts. He handed me a bill for $2,000. The crease in my forehead deepened further.

A year later, I’d like to say I learned my lesson about seeking happiness through Botox, but I’d be lying. I still find myself pondering, what if I had gone to a real doctor instead? And people continue to ask me what’s wrong. I keep smiling and saying, “Nothing, nothing at all,” while secretly plotting my next move.

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