I gotta level with you: puberty was fucking rough. I was taller than the boys in my fifth-grade class, my boobs reached double-D status around the same time, and my piss-poor eyesight resulted in Coke-bottle-thick glasses that made my eyes look like tiny green specks somewhere back there.
But the gods showed mercy. I didn’t have to deal with acne. Occasionally I had a zit that I dotted with Clearasil, but for the most part, my skin was my best feature, creamy and smooth like my favorite ice cream.
Then I grew up and the universe decided to royally fuck me over. I take care of my skin better than ever. I pamper it, I eat well, I stay out of the sun. Washing my face is my favorite part of the day, sad as that sounds.
But regardless of my tender loving care, zits seem to pop up all over my face like a hormonal round of Whac-a-Mole. As soon as I hit one, another crops up on the other side of my nose, giving new meaning to “turn the other cheek.”
I’d lay waste to my epidermis with a Silkwood-grade spray of benzoyl peroxide but I’m pretty sure it would exacerbate the problem. So I’ll keep spackling away and trying not to look at the Fresnel lens on my forehead. Thankfully, my eyesight is holding steady at –11.5.
(And by the way, Proactiv is really, really bad for your skin.)