As a teenager, I had pretty bad acne. It wasn't the horrible cystic kind, but it was the red, splotchy, noticeable kind that didn't seem to have any qualms about taking up residence on any free space between my hairline to the north, my jaw to the south, and my ears to the east and west. I didn't have a T-zone, I had a T-face. For those of you long-term readers who have been keeping score, yes, this means that I endured the unholy trifecta of acne, braces, and unibrow, a hellish genetic jackpot that was only exacerbated by my penchant for wearing earrings featuring miniature Troll dolls dressed like Santas.
I figured that since I spent more time applying salicylic acid than socializing during my formative years (I didn't so much as make it to second base until college, but I did find time to memorize the them song to Oxy's Resi-DON'T facial cleanser, a ditty I still remember to this day!), I would enjoy a zit-free adulthood as some kind of karmic door prize.
WTF? I've got lines around my eyes and whiteheads on my chin? Pick a side, nature! It's hard to feel like a grown-up playing paint-by numbers on your face. Should I use my concealer for my under-eye bags, my broken capillaries, or my adult acne? SO MANY CHOICES! Maybe I'm born with it, maybe it's Maybelline, maybe I need a fucking Bloody Mary and a hockey mask.
In an attempt at making light of the situation, I've taken to referring to my blemishes as "my pimps," but out of context it can confuse people.
I'd love to meet you for lunch, but I can't go outside today. My pimp won't let me.
Jeff, I can't fall asleep. My pimps are hurting me.
I guess I should count my blessings, though. At least my actual pimples aren't wearing gold chains and platform shoes, because that would really draw attention to them. You can't cover that shit with True Match.