Pimple

For the love of all things bright and beautiful all creatures great and freaking small!! Why?? WHY?? Seriously, I’m too freaking old for this gd nonsense. I’m 34 years old, and my face looks like it belongs to a 13-year-old. I have 5, count them FIVE god damned pimples on my freaking chin. What the hell is that all about??

I hate breaking out with a fiery passion equal to 1000 bolts of white hot lightning. There is nothing on this earth that I can think of that’s worse. Not being maimed in a tragic tractor accident, or having to listen to 3D drone on and on about his feelings, or Debbie Downer tells me another cat story. NOTHING is worse than the way my chin looks right this very second. Not even having to endure listening to David Hasselhoff singing.

Several months ago I decided to go back on the pill because it always helped my skin. Sure, it just so happened that I was also knocking boots with someone at the time, but the primary reason that I went on it was because of my skin. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have acne, it’s not that bad. But I do, several times, get a pimple.

My sister and I used to play this little game where we would name our pimples. Mine always get the same name: Simone. She decides to pop up for special occasions, and sometimes she likes to bring her friends. Tomorrow I’m going to a little Happy Hour with Disney and Dirt Bag. Dirt Bag is kinda cute, married, and enjoys hitting on me. It’s fun to be hit on from time to time, I know that he does it half jokingly, but tomorrow Simone will put a big fat stop to that. Instead, we’ll end up pretending that I don’t have pizza face and he’ll struggle to maintain eye contact instead of looking at all the damn red spots on my face.

I hate you, Simone. I hate you, and all your stupid friends.

Zit Happens

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