The zit on my lip is enormous, like Carnie Wilson before the gastric bypass.
It is hard--no, soft--moveable, pus buried under skin, too deep to surface. It's been there a week. It sits on the edge of my lip, throbbing, letting me know it is there. It doesn't interfere with the Entenmann's donuts though. So now I am fat, in addition to being hideous.
I feel self-conscious when I am talking to someone; I feel like I need to introduce it since it is right there, part of the conversation.
Acne has been a bane for most of my life. It had followed me from my teen years to adulthood, like Wheel of Fortune. I tried it all: hot compresses, smelly ointments, a brown paper bag. I started calling my zits "spots" to give it a British flair. When I moved to Chicago, I left no forwarding address hoping to dodge it. No such luck. It must have hired a private detective.
I could have been a slut but for acne. I could have had threesomes, foursomes, orgies. Instead, I am often left flying solo. A pimple appears just before a hot date, crippling my self-confidence. Once, I got a huge one on me arse, making sitting uncomfortable. A princess on a pea.
I think that I had turned a corner after I turned thirty. It came on less frequently, more sporadically. I guess in a way, it built "character". I wish that it built a chalet in the Swiss Alps instead.
I may have to perform surgery on "Carnie." Pierce it with a needle sterilized with a lighter. I don't think I have the guts to do it myself. Maybe Brian will go Dr. Carter on it for me...