Life... and pimples: the antithesis of aging...

There is a pimple on my face.

I am twenty-eight, and a pimple has erupted to life like a maturing urban legend - all except this isn't an urban legend. This is real, surreal and uncanny. I can almost be angry, if I am not bottling it up inside like a two litre bottle of coke, all shaken up.

Why does this happen to me? Even once I have reached the very mature age of twenty-eight? Surely such dermatological malignancies defy the laws of medical science and quantum physics? I was certain that such occurrences were supposed to cease completely a decade ago. I should be free from the devilish clutches of red, pus-filled complexion complexities. I should be free to roam the confectionery and potato chip aisles without a single thought of the herpetic-like facial eruptions. Gorging on mountainous piles of cholesterol bricks should come without a single skin pore rhetoric. I thought I was just supposed to be an old geriatric doosh bag. Life isn't supposed to give me the worse of both worlds, is it?

Perhaps once I roll over the hill of thirty I will be rid of complications such as this. It is only two years away, I think I can wait that long... maybe. What would someone of my age give to have a life without giving birth to such harrowing herpetic horrors? A Datsun? Toyota? Astin Martin? What is left of my masculine disposition perhaps? Though I will be more glad to trade the generous pad of insulation I have around my hips. I could be pregnant. I'll trade that.

Someone once said the path of least resistance in life could either be faith or despair. I think the latter may apply to me right at this moment. I don't think there is anything I can do to fend off the cosmetically impossible. My DNA is flawed with a hideous abnormality. My job has doomed me to grotesque facial asymmetry. The nocturnal magical midget gnomes have littered my face with their pimple growing pixie dust. The fate of my face is sealed - the depression will continue.

The dermatological tyrant has won. I must come to accept it... after I have squeezed and strangled it until it has begged for mercy. Should the white flag not rise, then the ensuing miniature explosion will serve its cathartic purpose enough. I would have at least won a small battle and retained a small portion of my dignity.