You and I have a love-hate relationship. I hate you but I love to pop you. You have never left my side (anatomically, my face, specifically, my chin, jaw line, forehead, cheeks) through the years. The gawky teenage, the awkward youth and the unsure turns at the end of the young trail. Hormones then, PCOS now perhaps? So what gives.
Sometimes when I saw you, I thought Oh crap, I am eating crap. Then I thought it was the stress ticket. Or a sleep disorder was taking point. Then I thought it was age. No, I never thought it was age. Scratch that.
I have popped you Oh Zit, Oh Acne, Oh Pimple with so much zest and stealth. I have had you splattered on the bathroom mirror, instantly regretting my crude surgical op. Doctors have looked at me quizzically when I say I interfere with your baking process. I have scars that even organic tea tree oil cannot brighten, or is it lighten? Every three years, you show up in my New Year Resolutions because you stand for a bigger fucked-up lifestyle choice. By fighting you, I fight french fries, panko fried chicken and samosas, and the occasional deep chocolate bundt cake. Ya right – deep, not rich.
But you show up every week on face. I have detoxed, cleansed, micro-dermabrasioned, surya-namaskared, toned, astringented, cucumbered and teabagged but you seem to show up nevertheless.
I am old now, please find another face to deface.