Hi, I'm Eric. I am guest blogging today. Paul a.k.a. "No Milk" isn't feeling very sociable this past week. I have been a cramp to his style or more accurately, a pimple on his nose.
Paul really isn't into the habit of naming his pimples, he would rather pretend that I do not exist. But I am named because my presence cannot be ignored. I am acne vulgaris, stubborn and hard, an angry red. I am the one that causes him grief, makes him change his plans, go on hiatus.
I also have a cat, who I brought along with me. Her name is "Pus."
In Paul's teenage years, I used to visit more frequently. Those were the times when he preferred to stay at home with only me for company. To liven things up, I would have some friends over for Pizza Nite, which is when my friends and I get together and make pizza out of his face.
We play games like "Acne Twister", where we are a mess of pimples all over each other with heated, sexual undertones; "Pimple Jenga", where we pile up on each other to see how high we can go before bursting in glory, launching Pus on to Paul's bathroom mirror, mingled with blood. It's quite a blast. We get real rowdy and shit.
To hear him say it, I am the cause of his misery, his misanthropy. I don't think I was all that bad. Because of me, he was able to cultivate interests and hobbies. Because of me, he read widely and voraciously. Because of me, he met his best friend: his right hand--the one he could rely on when he was bored or lonely or watching wrestling on TV.
These days however, I visit less and less--it seems less hospitable here. Maybe the skin is less oily or the testosterone levels have gone down or he is using better medication, I don't know. It was more fun in the old days anyway, when I meant so much more, when my mere presence could send him into a tailspin of depression.
These days he tends to ignore my presence, not even bothering to use a blemish cover-up unless I am unusually engorged, like I am right now. I don't know if he is starting to believe when his boyfriend Brian tells him that I am hardly noticeable, although I know I am. How can I not be? I think what Brian means is that he doesn't care to notice.
I can tell that I still nick at his confidence, but this is nothing compared to before. I am a guest blogger because I suspect it is his way of dealing with me, cutting me down to size.
Even now, as he heaps a suffocating amount of zit cream on me, I can feel myself start to dry up. Maybe I should consider moving to Joan Rivers' face or Laura Bush's crotch? I hear it's pretty dry there too. Anyway, in a few days, I will already be fading.
Maybe one day I will get tired of these visits.
Or maybe one day he will truly no longer care. Then it wouldn't really matter, would it?