PIMPLE AIN't EASY
By Guillaume Doane, Jayplay writer
The zit on my nose could have its own area code. Not really. But once paranoia takes hold of your mind, there's no telling what you'll believe.
I woke up a week ago and felt a discomfort invading my space. I rushed to the bathroom only to be welcomed by its gruesome sight. It was the size of a pea — a round, red dome glowing with anger and protruding from my snout. "How could this happen?" was my first thought as I began to realize that I'd never had a zit of this magnitude. People had always commented on my clear, soft, girlish skin, which for some bent reason I'd always taken pride in. I could not show myself in school with this vile blemish on my face. My classmates would ridicule me at once. They'd all be pointing and laughing and maybe some would even be screaming in disbelief. Even worse, maybe they'd banish me from their sights. Maybe my monstrosity has reached such an exorbitant level that they'd shun me from society, forcing me to live in dark alleys or attics like some modern Quasimodo. "Get a grip," I thought. This is no time for paranoia. The zit must be destroyed.
I again stepped in front off the mirror facing it as if I was dueling against myself in some gun showdown at high noon. I bent forward and attempted to pop the pimple, squeezing it from every angle and bursting it into submission. But the pain was too foul, too extreme for any luck. I glared back into the mirror and the zit appeared to be laughing at me, taunting me for my failure to end its existence.
New methods needed addressing to cast out this beast of burden. Could I spray Windex on it, as did the wise father in My Big Fat Greek Wedding? Then again, neither modern medicine nor arcane druid remedies could exorcise this demon. Drastic measures would have to be taken. Perhaps weapons of mass destruction were the answer, maybe napalm. Because it goes without saying that we couldn't let this beast of rancor get loose. There's no telling what it would do. Most likely, it would run us down like animals and kill us all. My zit must be destroyed.
I opted to take my chances and attend school despite the spawn of Satan on my nose. As I arrived at my first class, the jitters of embarrassment began run down my spine. I could tell some people refused to look at it, staring at the ground while they greeted my presence. The individuals who dared to look at the zit had even more drastic reactions. Some people shuddered in fear when they scoped even a mere glimpse of my abomination — as if I was the elephant man. "Look away, I'm hideous," I wanted to tell these people as I attempted to veil myself from their sight and escape into seclusion. Others couldn't help but stare it, meticulously studying it like geologists awaiting the eruption of a volcano on some obscure Pacific island near the Galapagos. "Get away, find some shelter," I responded to these imbecile scientists. "Don't you remember what happened with Mount Vesuvius?"
Illustration: Scott Drummond
"Maybe I was overreacting," I thought. It was possible that my paranoia had reached such an excessive level that I couldn't even rationalize a clear thought. I stepped in front of a mirror to scope out the situation and I realized that it was just a zit, an unsightly mark on my nose. We put such a premium on appearance these days that even the slightest imperfection makes us want to jump out of windows. Not for me though, not this day. This zit was a gift, a campfire story I'll one day tell my children while we roast marshmallows. I learned to love my pimple.
The zit wasn't the enemy. It was all those frightened individuals who shunned its existence are the enemy. It wasn't the pimple that was the problem, but it was the people that couldn't accept it and me for who and what we are. My zit had been loyal to me all this time, traveling with me everywhere I go. People would kill to have a companion as dependable as my pimple. I embraced it for its undeniable beauty, its radiance. I'd exalt it as the eighth wonder of the world and build a museum for it. People would surely accept it then. They'd pay five bucks a head to race through the turnstiles and marvel at its greatness. My zit, the mecca of the world, would unite humanity and bring them to a common bond.
— Guillaume Doane can be reached at gdoane@kansan.com.
4.1.04 Jayplay
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