Being a teenager is mentally tough. Itís
an emotional roller coaster. Ups and downs. Curves and
swerves. Yada. Yada. Yada.
But between the screeching music and the
screeching parents, have you thought about how physically
tough it is?
Iím not here to talk about ulcers and
stress or hormonal details not appropriate for this
newspaper; Iím here to talk about pimples.
Yes, you read right. Pimples. Those
blooming, beautifully tumescent buds of off-white cream that
crop up all over your face. Any day. Everyday. Anywhere.
Ah. The life of a pimple. Collectively
known as acne, it has several endearing monikers. Zit for
the edgy hipster. Blemish for the demure sophisticate.
Blackhead and whitehead for the technical nerd. It takes on
many shapes and sizes, colors and hues. Each pimple is
special. No two are the same.
A pimple is born out of nowhere. Well,
most of them are anyway. Sometimes, like humans, they were
the product of surrounding peoples/pimples. But even then,
it is always an orphan. It is sedentary: it stays in its
birthplace till death, never traveling to see the wonders of
the facial world.
At birth, it is hard and baby-soft pink.
It is just a body without a head, a hand without the
fingers. Then, as time goes on, it grows fatter, bloated by
the rich, white nutrients given by our gratuitous bodies.
The cream pushes the pimple, stretching its body
horizontally, and when it could stretch no more, the pimple
gains height. It gradually grows a head, a pointed volcano
with boiling cream-lava underneath. At this point, the
pimple itself becomes white. It is fully mature and has shed
its fetal hue. However, after the induction into adulthood,
the road to death is just a pop away.
And it always dies with a pop. No
teenager leaves a pimple to wither and wrinkle. It has a
dramatic death, but an exciting one. With one flick of the
fingernail, the pimple bursts. Like fireworks, really,
because after the initial explosion, it takes on many
colors: red, green, blue, yellow, purple. A pimpleís death
is always memorable. It leaves a permanent mark on the spot
of its birthplace, a landmark grave for a little life lived.
Maybe one day human-kind will take pride
in their existence, instead of shallow shame.
Maybe we can show them off instead of
Maybe pimples will become the new rage, a
fashionable trend exploding (literally) throughout the
Maybe... Oh god. Whatís that on my forehead?!