Not for the squeamish…
Okay, seriously. Acne? I am 44 frickin’ years of age! I shouldn’t be getting any. Peri-Menopause is wreaking havoc with my skin!! I mean, COME ON!!! I know my period’s coming, but I don’t need any extra facial detailing at present. It’s right beside my mouth – the size of… of… I want to say Vesuvius, but I know that really it’s only the size of a large pinhead, but it freaking hurts. Mostly because I’ve been picking, won’t leave it alone and can’t get what’s in there to come out… but the pain is real!
And every time I pick, I can hear my mother’s voice in my head “STOP PICKING!!! YOU’LL SCAR!” Her mantra from when I was an adolescent. Which, just so you know, I totally didn’t. I have four, count ’em FOUR, scars on my face and they are on my forehead and from me scratching CHICKEN POX, not ZITS and that happened when I was 8, and my bangs hide them. So there. That’s not to say I don’t have have lots of other scars, but they just aren’t on my face. I was a terribly accident prone child.
You HAVE to squeeze zits. You know what it’s like. That feeling that SOMETHING is in there. Something that if you just squeeze hard enough will shoot out, maybe landing on the mirror as a sebum trophy, maybe not, but almost certainly relieving that pressure under your skin. Then you dab on a little zit cream and you’re good to go, but until that moment of release – it’s torture.
I freely admit that the primate instinct in me is really strong. I’m a groomer. I’m a picker. If I am offered the choice between sex and squeezing a really deep blackhead on David’s back, I have to think about it really hard. (I know! I know!!!! EEEEEEW!!!!) I will TOTALLY choose the sex, but there is a really big internal conflict that occurs within me first. ‘Cause the satisfaction that comes from a really good blackhead squeeze? Unparalleled. Truly. Especially the ones where you can squeeze and squeeze and squeeze and ALL THIS STUFF COMES OUT?? Like in one long stringy bit? (I know! I know!!!!! EEEEEEW!!!) But come on… everyone has their thing. My Mom loves peeling sunburns. My brother loved to pick scabs. I have friends who SQUEEEEE!! over stripping wallpaper in one long strip. My thing just happens to be disgusting on a primordial level. A level that no one wants to talk about but almost everyone acts upon. Anyone who says that they don’t is lying and isn’t in touch with their inner gorilla.
The hardest thing now is that Rissa is getting blackheads and it takes every bit of restraint within me NOT to go at her. David says I’m not allowed to. She is out of bounds. He barely lets me do it to him because he HATES being picked at. David hates being picked at but he lets me, because he knows that I’m a twisted mess of a girl who has a primate grooming kink. See that? Right there? That’s love. That is how much he loves me. Oh the glory that is him!!