The Beast with Seven Heads

I’m 41 and have three children. So years ago I really hoped I was past the days of getting horrible pimples in the middle of my face. As with many things, Life has said, “Screw you!”and given me many a gigantic pimple at the most inopportune times.  So now that I am finally on the brink of recovery from my partial ligament tears in my right ankle (which is why half of my summer has been boring as hell), a glorious new volcanic red lump has mysteriously appeared on my chin. Normal pimples are not a big deal, especially since I started using an expensive sonically powered brush that I got free using points at my local drug store. They’re usually small and resolve in a day or two after I bombard it with extra scrubbing from the sonic brush. This one, however, is magical. Initially just a red lump, it developed two heads. Once those heads were gone, two more appeared, and so on and so on, like the hydra in Hercules. This has continued for days. It’s the Neverending Story of pimples and it’s taking place on my face. What makes it even better, is that my three year old daughter, pseudonym Peppa, takes great joy in naming body parts.  This trait is super cute when she’s pointing out little moles at home, not so cute when she’s pointing to your pimple, chatting about it, and trying to touch it during Sunday mass while I’m watching the priest is giving his homily. So I can no longer put a bit of concealer on, keep my head down and pretend it’s not visible to others. I have a personal town crier announcing everything in public to strangers.  God help me, I’m starting a second job in a few days and I’m so hoping that this evil beast will finally meet its end before then. If not, at least Peppa won’t be with me to tell my new boss what the gross thing on my chin is.

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