Being a teenager is mentally tough. It’s 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?

I’m not here to talk about ulcers and stress or hormonal details not appropriate for this newspaper; I’m 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. Everywhere.

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 pimple’s 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 hiding them.

Maybe pimples will become the new rage, a fashionable trend exploding (literally) throughout the nation.