Zits stink. I think we can all agree on that. Nothing is grosser than a great big festering pustule bursting forth on your face.
Or worse, my face.
I'll never forget my first zit. I was in sixth grade and IT was on my chin. Okay, I had already had that class where the boys go into a different room from the girls, and we watch films and learn about our bodies and stuff. Aside from learning about the birds and the bees and all that, we also were taught about zits and not to pick them. That didn't stop me!
I poked, pinched and jabbed at that thing until it was a big, red gooberous mess. I begged my mom for help, but by then it was too late. I covered my chin with a Band-Aid and told kids at school that I had somehow scraped my chin. The kids at school didn't buy it. They knew the thing I was trying to hide.
By lunch time, I was so humiliated I actually became physically ill. I went to the clinic and the nurse called my mom, who left work to pick me up and take me home.
Years later, I look back on the "Band-Aid Incident," and guess what?!: It's still not funny! What's worse, I haven't learned a darn thing! I continue to pinch, poke and claw those icky little face invaders until they swell up bigger than a watermelon and leave pink glowing scars when they finally go away.
Pretty much the only thing that has changed is my ability to apply make-up. After years of aborted pimple-popping excursions, I've learned just the right combination of Oxy and Almay cover-ups to nearly mask the monstrosities I've created.
Not that this is a fail-proof solution, especially in Florida! Our tropical humidity can melt one's camouflage in seconds flat, making one's face resemble something out of Nightmare on Elm Street.
Now girls, if you think you're the only one who has to worry about this stuff, guess again! I remember one time I found some Cover Girl cover stick in my then-boyfriend's bathroom drawer. I figured it belonged to his last girlfriend or something. And well, you know how expensive make-up is so, well, I sort of took it.
Sure enough, one week later, there was my then-boyfriend, sporting a bursting facial accessory and accusing me of stealing his cover stick. Boy was my face red! But at least I didn't have a big zit like him! (Ha. Ha.)
Anyway, leave your pimples alone. Do as I say, not as I pick. Besides, your zits never look as bad as you think they do (until you claw at them; then they look awful).
Try building a friendly relationship with your zits. I have friends who actually name their zits. Why not try it? Zeke and Esmeralda are excellent names. You know how people buy live turkeys to raise for Thanksgiving, give them names and then are unable to kill them and eat them because it's like killing and eating friends? If you get on a first-name basis with your zits, you'll be less likely to mercilessly attack them in the bathroom mirror.
After all, what have Zeke and Esmeralda ever done to you?
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