For so long I believed they would eventually go away. People told me they would. Popular notion said they would. I believed. I was patient.
The ads are all aimed at young people. Indeed, the very presence of the spots implies immaturity, as if one cannot be an adult without a clear complexion. Stridex, Clearasil, Oxy Clean Medicated Pads, grown ups are never used to sell these products, only kids. The plain implication, the unavoidable inference is that this malady only afflicts the young, and therefore once one has grown sufficiently one will never have to deal with a zit ever again. One day a switch will be thrown and the strings of christmas tree pimples will disappear, just like that. That’s the message.
It’s bullshit, of course. They never go away. I sweat less on average; I have much better hygiene; and honestly I do have fewer than I did when I was in highschool, but they still plague me in a profound way.
The ones that pop up right next to a nostril, in that crevice of flesh where oil concentrates in the protected valley between cheek and nose, those are usually painful. Sometimes they’ll actually sprout just inside the nostril, making it nearly impossible to pick a booger without sending lightning bolts of pain through one’s face. The side of the nose can be painfull, as can the cheek and the chin. But the forehead presents special opportunities for the ambitious pimple.
Anywhere on the forehead is a drag since it’s so obvious, like a blinking marquee advertising an action-packed thriller of adolescent frustration. But for ultimate effect the placement has to be dead-center, right between the eyes. Cyclops. The all-seeing third eye. That’s the beauty. You get one of these babies and you can scare small children and tiny animals. All day long fun.
The effect on members of the opposite sex is also notable, but not always like you’d expect. Certainly, even if she’s studying Homer and your name happens to be Odysseus, this will not likely help your chances of scoring, but if you already have a girlfriend (or wife) the presence of a big juicy zit (particularly if it’s on your back) will fire her up. You tell me if I’m wrong, but it becomes irresistible and must be popped. Your discomfort will be far from her mind as she squeezes and pressures that little blister until it squirts its payload like vanilla cream with a little cherry sauce. Again, this may not actually help you score, but some strange satisfaction on her part will be evident nonetheless.
It could be worse, I know. Some guys and gals get it real bad, and there’s no joke about that. It really sucks. The occasional pimple I get is really no big deal and I’m thankful for the relatively zit-free complexion I’ve got. Just do me one favor: look me in the eye when you talk to me.
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You’re currently reading “Third Eye,” an entry on wad's place
- December 25, 2004 / 1:19 am