Zit-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.

I have a massive zit in my middle of my brows. It almost feels like possessing a third eye, if that third eye was a little polyp of oil, pus and bacteria. Mmmm, gooey. Or not. It’s pretty heinous and I feel betrayed. I bought into all those lies told during puberty. “Oh, after 17 you won’t have any more zits. It’s smooth skin and clear sailing from here on out.” I was also told I’d end up reasonably tall. Adults clearly don’t know shit.

So pimples still exist and one decided to make my forehead its home. Everyone knows that pimples should best be left to run their course. You don’t want that little sack of toxic substances let loose to explode all over your face, causing splash damage in an alarmingly wide radius. It’s a complicated process involving sterilising needles, grabbing cotton compresses and a host of other rigmarole that seems more cumbersome than carrying a blob around on your visage. Hell no to that. Still, do you think I could resist a big white beacon like that? Of course not, I’m not famed for my self control. After staring at it, agitated, I took to the mirror and grabbed a couple of pieces of toilet paper.

The smart thing would be to follow instructions. The smart thing would’ve been to shore up the large gaps in my knowledge (as I said, I thought I was meant to be done with these things by now) with a quick Googling. I haven’t read anything on the subject in a great many years (great in fact because they didn’t involve many pimples).

I’m not a smart man.

I remembered something I read in a book once about pulling away from the pimple rather than squeezing it. Apparently this was more likely to make a small tear in the head of the zit, causing its vile contents to ooze rather than pop. It’s also absurdly difficult to get a good grip. I tried, and when I didn’t get much traction I just tried harder. Eventually it gave way and little amounts of that viscous white liquid started dribbling out. I got my bits of toilet paper and dabbed a little more. Still there was too much in there. This method wasn’t working, I needed to find another tack.

Here’s the thing though. Often when trying to accomplish something I’ll get to a point where I realise the folly of my method. It becomes apparent that this course of action doesn’t result in a satisfying photo finish and using my smarts would be substantially more helpful.

As I said, I’m not a smart man.

What undoubtedly happens in these situations is I just continue on in the same path, but with exponentially more gusto. Or force. Because that’s always a great way to solve a problem.

So I just pulled harder. My skin was screaming out for release. Just hold on I thought it’ll cave eventually. It did. More of the desired undesirable pus oozed out and onto a ready piece of toilet paper. Then it got murkier. It took on a rusty hue. Then it was just red. I dabbed down at the blood, no doubt getting it all over the surrounding area. It’s fine I thought at least it’s not white and gross any more.

Because clearly a big red dot is far superior.

I woke up this morning and it looks pretty noticeable. It’s like I have a miniature bindi right between the eyes. If only. From what I can tell, a bindi is usually a symbol to worship the value of intellect, concentration or inner sight. By inflicting this poorly handled aftermath upon myself, I applied the use of none of the above. In no way have I consecrated my chakra by my brutish actions. The only silver lining is that it kind of reminds me of Avatar‘s Sparky Sparky Boom Man. I’m now fantasising about being able to fire lasers from my head. The childish part of me (everything non-physical) is kind of elated and almost wishes giant robots would attack Toronto to give me an excuse to rise up.

If only.

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