I’m fortunate in that I’ve always been praised for having beautiful, clear skin. I took pride in my acne-free visage. I convinced myself that my good complexion and cute button nose would make up for my pear-shaped hips and my small, B-cup tits. Sadly, all that changed a mere few months ago.
I was luckiest in high school. Not having to endure a perma-pizza face throughout adolescence like all my friends did (suckers!) gave me a bit of an acne superiority complex. In my mind, I had refined pores and quality skin. There was no need for Neutrogena, Clean & Clear or Accutane.
One fine morning, my sebaceous glands realized they had spared my face from embarrassing pimples far too long. It was retaliation time. From one day to the next, I went from having immaculate skin to being plagued with whiteheads, blackheads and pus-filled zits. They began to follow their own cycle, too; the pimples reach their peak a week before and during my period. Afterwards, they start to swell down. This ultimately leaves me with one week of clear skin between periods.
They’re usually the most painful type of pimple; the kind you can’t pop for days, that hurts when you touch it, that even the best makeup can’t conceal. Sometimes it starts with a barely noticeable blemish on my cheek. “Don’t touch it,” I warn myself, “You’ll cause more harm than good.” But I have to touch it. I have this constant, uncontrollable desire to squeeze it or rip it off. My greasy fingers end up feeding the blemish, which then grows into a monster zit.
So I gave in to that Jessica Simpson commercial. If Proactiv worked for her, it would work for me. Well, I was wrong. It didn’t make much of a difference at all. I even tried toothpaste but it kept getting stuck in my hair. I later bought over $100 worth of Avon and Vichy products but the zits kept coming back. So annoying.
I then started getting chest pimples and -gasp- bacne. Over time, I think I’ve actually become a little cross-eyed from trying to stare at my chest zits. More recently, I’ve been getting pimples on my scalp. My scalp! They burn like a motherfucker and there’s no amount of T-Gel that will get rid of these little pricks. T-Gel is some strong shit, too; its main ingredient is coal tar and it helps treat psoriasis. Apparently coal tar may be carcinogenic, so you can imagine how heavy duty it’s supposed to be. Do you know how much it stinks? It’s like shampooing with mothballs. And the shittiest part of scalp pimples is that popping them is virtually impossible. Ladies, let’s not kid ourselves, we all LOVE squeezing the puss out of those zits. I need to squeeze those bad boys.
The satisfaction I get from seeing that white crap oozing out like there’s no tomorrow is indescribable. I remember one pimple in particular. It had been taunting me for days and days but I couldn’t get rid of it. Then one morning, the redness subdued and all that remained was a glorious pustule ready to be attacked. I stood in front of the mirror to better watch the white liquid spill out of my infected pores, and to my immense pleasure it splashed the fucking mirror! I was so excited and grossed out all at the same time that I called me my mom to show her. She wasn’t impressed.
Another guilty pleasure of mine is to probe my boyfriend’s whiteheads and blackheads. You do it too, don’t lie. He hates it and we’ve actually fought over it. He has this secret dilated pore on his back, which after months and months of accumulating dirt and grease, hardens to give birth to the mother of all whiteheads. I’ve actually offered him blowjobs just to watch him pop it, but to no avail.
I’ve for the most part accepted zits. I love to pop them way too much. Sure, I’m no longer a teen and it seems like I should be pimple-free by now, but whatever. The only way I’d spend another penny on an acne treatment was if I were guaranteed that it would zap those things right off my face. Do you know of such products? Because at this point, I sort of doubt their existence.