Acne.

Yo.

I'm going to complain about acne. And it's going to be gross. Not witty, not entertaining, Not even worth reading.

You've been warned.

So you know how every "normal" human starts getting zits around 13 or 14 and the developmental science literature tells you that they're gone by your "late teens?" Yeah, so I have pimples in my third grade school picture, I turn 22 this week and I am still covered in zits.

Nay, craters.

Except that I'm not joking. I had to excavate a cyst and it literally left a bruise, YES a bruise, the size of my thumbprint on my face. I have 4 more massive zits to wash, scrape, boil, and sanitize. I will look like I got in a bar fight by the time this whole process is done. And you know what? They. Will. Come. Back.

Make all the assumptions you want lovely skinned people. I wash my face 3 to 4 times a day, I don't touch my face, I ALWAYS have some sort of chemical on it. Yes, I've tried toothpaste, peroxide, Benzol peroxide, alcohol, every face wash ever invented ever, and as of three days ago, Proactive.

What I'm saying here is that I need to get my shit together and see a dermatologist. The typical visit involves me sitting in their room for a half hour while they look at my face. Then they tell me that I have acne.

WAIT WHAT? That's what that is? MIND IS BLOWN.

Then they tell me that I have lots of scars.

Really? Haven't noticed.

Then they tell me that half the zits on my face will leave scars.

Good. Great. Love it.

Now I can eat my words a little and admit that generally whatever concoction of goo they tell me to smear all over my face usually works pretty well.

But I'm still complaining tonight. Because my face hurts and looks like it got hit by a truck. Literally.

You're welcome.

Kait