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Rosacea is a chronic, lifelong skin condition that affects (most often) the face. The disease is common: approximately 1 in every 20 Americans has rosacea. Women are affected more often in the early stages (flushing and erythrosis), but more men progress to the advanced stages and rhinophyma is seen almost exclusively in men over 40 years of age.
Rosacea is characterized by various skin disorders and sufferers must contend with skin flushing, erythrosis (reddish or purplish discoloration of the skin), teleangiectasia (permanent enlargement of small blood vessels), papulopustular rosacea (papules are small, red, raised bumps; pustules are similar but they contain pus) or rhinophyma (enlarged, red, swollen nose) and for many people, some of these signs and symptoms are very common; approximately 94% of people with rosacea have flushing. These attacks last from a few minutes to several hours, and the flushing seen in rosacea is intermittent in nature. The disease, to a greater or lesser degree, is progressive, and the more pronounced skin lesions will usually follow sporadic episodes of flushing.
The exact cause of rosacea has not been determined, but here are many theories. Exposure to the sun may be one factor, and exposure to the sun can precipitate acute episodes of flushing. Another possible cause are skin mites, Demodex folliculorum and Demodex brevis. These tiny insects usually live at the base of hair follicles. They are often found on the faces of people with rosacea, and it has been suggested that they may initiate an inflammatory reaction (Inflammation dilates blood vessels and this contributes to the flush, and it may also damage the blood vessels, causing them to be permanently dilated). Infection with the common bacteria, Helicobacter pylori, has also been suggested as a cause. There may also be genetic defects in the vasculature of the skin that causes hem to become easily - and permanently - dilated.
The signs and symptoms of rosacea are not dangerous, but they can be uncomfortable, unsightly, and disfiguring. (However, rosacea can affect the eyes. Approximately 3% to 58% of patients with skin changes will have eye problems and rosacea keratitis can lead to blindness). Yet although there is no cure for rosacea, the disease can be managed. Topical medication, oral medications and laser therapy can all be used to control flushing and to remove some of the skin blemishes, swollen blood vessels and discoloration. However, it would be far more preferable to prevent outbreaks of flushing and the development of erythrosis and papulopustular lesions. It is well known that there are certain factors - sunlight, stress, heat - that can trigger rosacea signs and symptoms, and food has been identified as a trigger.
What foods have been implicated as causes of rosacea signs and symptoms? The list is long, and there is obviously individual variations in susceptibility: high doses of B6 and B12, chocolate, tomatoes, hot beverages, hot sausage, red pepper, black pepper, vinegar, paprika, white pepper, garlic, wine, hard liquor, beer, cheese, yogurt, sour cream, milk, citrus fruits, eggplants, avocadoes, spinach, raisins, figs, bananas, and marinated meat.
Why do these foods exacerbate rosacea? No one knows for sure, and given the fact that the exact cause of rosacea hasn't been clearly determined, that's not surprising. However a look at the pathophysiology of rosacea may provide some clues.
The flush that is so common in people with roseacea is caused by dilation of the small blood vessels of the face. Why this occurs is not certain. The blood vessels may be genetically weak, or they may be damaged by years of exposure to the sun. There may also be an increase in the number of blood vessels, or there may be damage to the walls of the blood vessels. Whatever the cause, the blood vessels (which in the face are very close to the surface) dilate. Many of the foods that trigger flushing attacks most likely do so by increasing body temperature, and in order to lose body heat, blood vessels dilate. Others may cause flushing by stimulating the release of histamine. This is a naturally occurring substance that dilates blood vessels and some foods, e.g. beer and citrus fruits may stimulate the release of histamine.
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The size and shape of a women's breast is determined by hormones. The most central hormone in this process is of course estrogen. Usually during puberty when breasts begin to develop, estrogen and other hormones are released in the proper amounts which cause breasts to grow to what is considered the average cup size of "C" . In many cases, genetics and body chemistry step in and hormones are not released in the proper amounts resulting in breast tissue that does not fully develop. Poor nutrition can also contribute to inadequate regulation of the body's hormones.
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The Stone-Builders [By their Weapons]
[Big-chest was a reluctant hero, for the most part, that is, in killing the Stone-Builders; yet when he could, he did so of course, --but I say reluctant I suppose with reluctance; for it was not unlike everyone at this time to be disinclined to kill them, they seemed to be in the vein of the gods, un-killable: yet he killed them and fought them, more so than anyone else—less out of conviction than out of desire to avoid dishonor and social embarrassment for himself.]
Said I [I, being: Short-legs], I had seen one time Big-chest walk into a campsite of theirs, the Stone-Builders that is, —I tried to tell this story to my brother, Stern-toes, once, but I never could explain it right, but I think he got the jest of it, if not the seriousness, we did both laugh at the Stone-Builders for hours on end, afterwards. As I was about to say, myself and Little-eyes witnessed this whole happening from a distance of course. The Stone-Builders were full of what they called: ‘wone, or wine,’ something along that order, some sounds take me back a bit, they had new sounds all the time, yes O yes, inventing new sounds like the growing of leafs on a tree, coming into our brains like new winds, dragging it into a mode of thinking more everyday, instead of being fond of the birds, and just living: eating, sleeping and dying—these words we never heard of before were floating everywhere in the air, ever since that is, the arrival of the Stone-Builders on the scene: before this, before Eve walked out of that Garden, things were dangerous, but much more quiet.
Well, Big-chest, noticed one evening—not being too far in the thick of the foliage by their campsite [the Stone-Builders site]—they had killed a man-eater [lion]; there were four of them, called ‘soldiers,’ at the campfire-site, a resting place to them: just laughing, and drinking, and being playful like a group of little cubs: lion cubs—wild and whimpering [whiny] lion-cubs, that is exactly what they were like. I could see Big-chest laughing to himself—inside that big muscular oversized chest: as he watched them wrestle around with one another, actually they did get a little over physical with one another, like the wild boars whom would chase after one of us, wanting to eat us for a feast, and then they’d settle down again. It was a cold winter’s night that day, so there was a real chill in the air, and not all that much leafy undergrowth for us to hide or for that matter to slap the chill away: nor for that matter Big-chest: although he had a coat of hair all over him to keep him warm anyways—showed a bit of chill in his face also. Although—I was grateful for the few large trees with the plant-life tucked around me, it absorbed some of the wind—the brisk, cold winds seeping by us, around us, and almost through us: the shrubbery covered us, as we remained in the distant woods, with a pile of leaves up to our knees: leaves for warmth and camouflage, --camouflage being a plan incase we figured we’d have to duck, hide ourselves-quickly should they get the best of Big-chest, but we doubted that: Big-chest was just the opposite of us----mean,--plus
as always, Big-chest was confident of his abilities, he stood in the woods, no shadow—not sure what he did with it, but he was cleaver; just a big blob of muscle, hair and sharp eyes, small squinty eyes pinned on the four Stone-Builders, at the camp site, and their man-eater, that was going to be his dinner. He was actually blocking our vision a bit, but I think he did that because he wanted to show his audience—which was us—who was the braver. I actually had some kind of a feeling for those men who were about the meet Big-chest, a gloomy feeling at best, and a thankful feeling: thankful, it was not us in their place; yet both I and Little-eyes, both surely held feelings of revenge for the Stone-Builders, and this was kind of a good time for the revenge to seep out, but I don’t care for revenge for the most part, not really, it takes too much energy, saps you—in review, all was quite mysterious to me.
Then unsuspected, he walked into the camp, tall as a mountain, hairy as a leafy think forest, long, a very long mouth from ear to ear, his teeth showed—he walked reminiscent of the king of the Stone-Builders [I think he was mimicking him—he like to do such things], he must have seen him walk, for he was arched just like their king, head back, eyes slanting down as if they were subordinates; --among the four he crept up, not a word, not a sound, the dark-dragging behind him, the sky had very little light given by the stars, but it followed him overhead none the less, a cloud covered the moon—as if he and Big-chest were pals; now he had seen their weapons by the fire, where the dead lion lay, if anything, Big-chest was shifty: sly, observant: he was swaying his body akin to the huge trees in a storm, not sure exactly why, but I think it got his blood moving and his limbs more flexible for swinging when he used them for clubs—and it made for a good showing: his hands were as big as large branches of a tree: and as hard. Closer and closer he came to the fire, no one noticed him yet, can’t figure it out, no one, no one at all, --could they not hear him a little, just a tiny bit, I asked myself, for both myself and Little-eyes could hear his foot steps even in the woods, at twice their distance, I was about to learn we had better hearing than these new creatures. But then this new breed of course, can not have all the advantages, thank goodness, thus, our senses were better, we were tuned higher one might say, and they were tuned with more and a higher intelligence than we.
His fingers now, almost touching the ground—I could see—he, he had long thick arms, and fingers, and perturbing muscles, he was impressive to look at, huge to digest with your eyes, and frightening if you did not see him on a daily bases, and dangerous to be around, at any time. Then all of a sudden two of the four turned their necks to see what was in back of them; not sure if they heard him, sensed him, or just did out of an automatic military checking ritual,--whereupon, they almost went into shock: two stood up, all four were some fifteen feet from their weapons. The two who were squatting, the closest to the fire, were in a panic, the other two were a little farther away, standing now, unsure, thinking. I think one was releasing himself; he made a puddle and was trying to cover it up by kicking dirt, how modest. I figured why waste your time, this was precious time, run, run, run: that is what I’d do, but I really was hoping they’d not run, I must have an evil side in me also, just like them; you know, they got this pride thing, and I was hoping they would stay with this pride and arrogance, and then as I stopped thinking for a moment, Big-chest knock it out of them, if that is, they had any pride left. I think I was starting to get like them, that being: aggressive thoughts.
In any case, Big-chest took his right hand swung it backwards to build up momentum, and with the force of a giant tree, hit the head of one of the squatters as he was about to stand up, it sounded faintly similar to thunder, and I could hear it snap, and rip, similar to a timber falling after lightening strikes it, strikes a tree out of its roots, its stretching roots out of the ground. He fell on his chest, then pushing himself, flopped over and onto his shoulder as if it had nothing holding his head in place, like a dead fish flopping, jumping in a creek—he lost his inner breath. The other one tried to get to his weapon, but Big-chest, akin to lightening, jumped with one leap over to him, picked him up by one leg, his penis showing, as Big-chest looked strangely at it, as if to laugh at a small ugly worm, for they all liked covering them up for some odd reason, and Big-chest now must have figured out, he knew why. And we both in the bushes started to giggle, snicker, laughing at the sight—I wanted to say laugh again—but we had to hold our laughing inside our stomachs for a while, so as not to spoil his feat. Then after our expressions of amusement, a stern grin appeared on Big-chest’s face—I think he heard us—in any case, he tossed him into the fire when he got bored looking at him, after twisting him about for a few seconds, breaking his leg in several places I imagine, for I kept hearing crunches, as if bones were cracking, and then there was his screams.
Then one of the two standing routed himself through the woods yelling something on the order of: “Hhhhh eel pppp...!” Not sure what that meant. The last one, I call him the brave one, or definitely I could call him the stupid one, or should I say foolish one, none-the-less, he pulled out a sharp object, about the length of his hand, and stood in front of Big-chest as if he was going to fight him. At this point I said, and Little-eyes thought: this was the end for him; he [the soldier] looked like a banana compared to Big-chest. I asked myself, ‘Is he crazy? Run, and run while you can,’ and I was on Big-chest’s side now, more than ever, but it didn’t sound like it for that split-moment, but I felt it was a little unfair, size and all. But the man, whom I am calling a brave-soldier, stood his ground, and actually looked at Big-chest in the eyes. My-gosh, the man must have been half his size, about 175 pounds, quick on his feet though, for he was dancing around Big-chest, trying to stab him, and poke him. He looked more like a bee trying to sting someone, but that just irritated him more. Big-chest had taken arrows out of himself one-hundred times before, I bet; arrows deeper than that knife would have ever penetrate, if the person had gotten a chance to lunge it into Big-chest, and he didn’t get that chance: and it never hurt him much: those pokes. These little wounds were nothing, --but should he leap and get a good stab possible in the upper chest of Big-chest, or eye, then I’d worry.
To make a long story short: Big-chest just looked dumfounded at the figure in front of him dancing in a circle, and didn’t move very much, except around; I’ve seen Little-eyes close his eye-lids now, he knew, he knew what was about to happen, and with his waving quick long arms, Big-chest picked up the seven foot lionesses, and put it over his shoulder, the crazy Stone-Builder charged at him, and Big-chest with a quick sweep, with a turn, knocked the man flat on his back, onto the ground, he had hit him with the man-eater, as he balanced it over his shoulder. Then, somewhat, disparate, or so it seemed, reminiscent of a dying fish jumping about trying to get back into the water—he: Big-chest—kicked him in the mid-section of his belly, sweeping him into the fire like trash, now almost a dead fish. The Soldier could not move, he surely had a broken spine I thought, had he not, he would had gotten up and run fast out of the fire, and he didn’t: or couldn’t, for Big-chest couldn’t run with the man-eater on his shoulder so it was a good time to escape, if he could. But he didn’t, or couldn’t, nor do I think he intended to. But again, the man tried to move out of the fire with no suitable means other than his arms which were now on fire, for surely his ribs and legs were broken. Big-chest simply turned away from him as if he was insignificant, as I did myself. The defeat was predictable, and most unnecessary. I got thinking: what kind of creature fights when they cannot compete. It has always been the law of the land—to run, unless cornered: hence, when you can’t battle, don’t. It wasn’t necessary to die like that. I was learning about pride and arrogance quickly from these new creatures though; all in time and observation I told myself, and I’d be well informed on their unusual habits.
11
Early winter
We had no way of knowing which winter would be good to us or bad for us, and winter this particular winter had come early, and therefore our food supply was exhausted, depleted that is, rather quickly. When Little-eyes and I returned back to the cave the following evening, we had told in our symbolic way: expressed at the Banana Cave that is, to the entire Horde how Big-chest had killed the Eve People. And you could hear the laughter for miles around. I tried to explain how Big-chest had seen or sensed their movements, their evil objective, and their killing intent: as he always seemed to be able to sense survival quite well; he had a special quality of seeing through a person to his evil side, as he could see through us, thus, he could see through the Stone-People as well. I explained how one of the men stayed to fight him, trying to outstare Big-chest, and got kicked into the fire, and died. They all shook their heads in wonderment, we were not the smartest of the inhabitants of earth, but that was sure dumb we all thought, no vocal language was needed for that understanding or response. I think Big-chest had taken his trophy to his cave in our area, and was having a formal meal at this time. We liked anyone who could out smart the Stone-People I suppose, they were smug and we were helpless to them most of the time; they had well groomed weapons, and we had simply rocks and some clubs, along with a few sharpened stones, as they now were being called, knifes, up to the appearance of the Stone-People, they were just tools. And so it felt good if anything, good to see the odds turn for once, and to be frank, they didn’t turn much, if ever in our favor after that episode. But our surprise would come in the morning: --yes, we would not be forgotten for once.
Morning
In the morning when several of us looked out of our cave entrances, in the center of the canyon below our cliff dwellings, as we often did to be sure we were safe from man or beast, in the open area in the valley below us, we saw half a lion torn open, lying in the center of our domain, for us, it was a treasure, a gift, a donation if anything, and all of us quickly ran to eat what meat Big-chest had left for us. Big-chest was not always so generous, or kind, but for some odd reason, he knew we were starving for some protean, and our bodies were starting to show our ribs. Aimless to say, this never happened again—not in such a quantity, but we all gave Big-chest a super big smile as we walked proudly out of our canyon-caves and ate the raw meat [for he appeared standing erect by a cave entrance observing the feast he provide]; yes, some of us even were tarring at the red meat, animal protein, liken to wolfs.
12
The Hermit by the Sea
It was a short period of time from when Big-chest appropriated the lion [took it from the Stone-Builders] and we all ate the meat, when I joined the Horde in the valley on a crisp morning—a morning that told me, the seasons were about to change, thus, leading into spring; I could see my breath: it was so brittle, so I knew winters end was near. There was great commotion in the valley below, as there often was when someone or something new came about to celebrate, I had noticed from my cliff dwelling a gathering of the Horde, looking down, I quickly dashed along the sides of the cliff until I reached the floor of the valley to see what it was, as did Little-eyes, as I had woke him, trying to explain a happening was taking place.
Thin-hips of the Horde [Sister to Moss]
When I reached the bottom and many of the folk were going to and fro, some with sad and hungry faces, very sad posture, I made my way through several folks now gathered around this one section of the cliff; old-Moss, the Hermit by the Sea, was laying dead, his sister, Thin-hips, was there pacing, walking back and forth, kind of chanting, humming something, sounds on top of sounds—death had waxed his face I noticed. Old Moss was the oldest folk I had ever known, ever heard of. He must have been 60 or 65 years old—I doubt Big-chest was that old. No one ever lived that long, no one that is but Moss, I suppose. You could tell by looking at him, half his death was caused by starvation, the other by his long walk back to the Valley of the Caves, the strenuous walk; a walk many took to come back when they felt their time was short on this ground, like some fish, we all seem to know our dying ground; he came from the far off place, called the Great Cliffs by the Sea. I had only seen him when I was a kid and then once or twice coming and going, within a twenty-year period. He lived in the sand hills far from the Horde as I was saying, to the extreme East, and not far from there to the south was the Great Sea and the cliffs he always told his sister about, much larger than ours, higher than ours he’d say. He add, this place was somewhere between the Sea, and the cliffs, and the strait, and this valley was a flat area, plateau, this is where he wondered off too often, or so he’d claim, upon his return. He knew my father quite well, Long-arms, and did visit him, it was always when I was gone it seemed. They appeared to get along quite well, as one might expect, two strange folks to say the least; not sure what they had in common, matter of fact, if anything, one was lazy—my father, the other, Moss, was quite active I heard.
The Great Sea
But he did bring back information to his sister, who shared it with us, and of course he’d tell other people also of his journeys, or try to describe them best he could, and we were all quite interested in his tales—it was entertainment: yes he was a man of tales, I guess in one way I admired him for that, it was almost like some of the occupations the Stone-Builders had, or called occupations, which were really doing things by order of their king and getting fed by someone else because of the king—strange. Thus, Moss was our entertainer, and Moss did get fed by most of the Horde’s residents for doing so, I think they’d call him in to their cave to hear him talk, or draw pictures, or act out his strange adventures. Half the time we never knew what he was saying, but then, so what and it was amusement. Everyone liked him, and so did I.
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I yearn for a simpler time. Life in this modern age can be frustrating and scary, what with the global warming and the bad cholesterol and the high-definition reruns of 'The Nanny'. I long for a more peaceful existence, free from the complications of the twenty-first century lifestyle. I'm ready to re-adopt a few of our long-forgotten traditions, to recapture the halcyon days of yore. Yesteryore, even. I'm not screwing around here.
First, I'd like to go back to using surnames to describe peoples' professions. So, if I meet a Shoemaker, I'll know he can help me patch the holes in my sneakers. If I run into a Baker, I can ask for a 'doughnut hole', without worrying how exactly he'll interpret the request. And if a Parker happens to be around -- well, maybe he can finally get my car into my garage spot. Plus, he might be turn out to be Spider-Man. That would be sweet.
While we're at it, how about if we go back to riding horses to get around? Gas prices are high, pollution is terrible, and I for one am fed up with that creepy, big-eared 'zoom zoom' brat. Much better that we should saunter around the natural way, atop large domesticated hairy animals. We can ride twelve wide down the highway, trotting and cantering our way to the office. Sure, we'll all need stables -- and salt licks, and hay bales, and the level of poop in the streets would escalate, just a touch, unless you live in Paramus -- but it's a small price to pay to be rid of our mobile metal monsters. And just think of all the glue and Big Macs we'll be able to make with the 'leftovers'.
It doesn't end there, though. I think we should settle all of our differences the old-fashioned way, too, with a nice pistol duel. If it was good enough for the founding fathers, then why not us? Put away the fancy Glocks and rifles -- those things won't help you much, anyway, once we convert back to horseback travel. Have you ever heard of a 'gallop-by shooting'? Me, neither. We'll nip an awful lot of violence in the bud, if the would-be perps were forced to use ancient flint-lock pieces to do their dirty deeds. Those things are more likely to blow off your fingers than to take out your enemy. I'd think twice before stepping off ten paces against the guy who dissed my baby's mama, that's for sure.
I suppose the Internet is out, too -- if there's anything that screams 'modern technology', it's the internet. So we'll have to get our porn somewhere else, obviously. But also our communications -- email goes out the window, too. Maybe we can Pony Express parchments to each other, or learn to send 'leetspeak' instant messages via smoke signal. Of course, if the spammers get their grubby paws on that technology, they'll fill the skies with soot, selling their snake oil and combination butter churns/penis enlargers. And you thought pop-up ads were bad; at least nobody ever got black lung from one of those.
Finally, let's start talking like the old-timers -- sorry, I mean, 'olde-timers'. All the fancy new lingo and technical jargon around today -- let's throw it all away, and replace it with words like 'forsooth' and ''verily'. Sure, nobody knows what the hell those things mean any more, but is that really any different than technoweenie talk like 'phishing' or 'emoticon'? If we're going to be unintelligible, at least we can sound Shakespearean. That's my attitude.
Would any of these measures make our lives easier? Perhaps. Maybe we should ask the Amish, before we go to all the trouble. They certainly seem happy, raising barns and riding in buggies and not smoking or drinking or dancing or... wow. If we're really serious about going 'retro', I suppose we have to fall in line with all of that uber-observant religious mumbo-jumbo, too. I never thought about that. And there's no way I'm getting up before noon on Sundays, or giving up my three-margarita breakfasts. So, never mind. Maybe the modern life isn't quite so bad, after all. Verily.
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