Marti Schodt
May 06, 2015 6:00 am

Dear Acne,

Why, man? Why you gotta play me like this? You know I have a date tomorrow. We talked about this. Remember? I used that nice expensive peach scrub and begged you to be nice? And then I used that aloe mask and drank all that water to calm you down? You seemed upset but you promised me you’d put aside your angst and help me out this one time. But no. Then you wouldn’t be the center of attention.

It’s always about you and your ‘sensitivity.’ Well I’m sensitive, too, acne. I have feelings and needs and dreams and not one of them involves a giant unicorn zit between my eyes. Don’t you want me to be happy? Don’t you want me to have a normal life with a career and friends and lovers? Don’t you want me to leave the house sometimes? Yes, I know we have fun staying in bed in last nights make-up and watching 30 Rock, but I want more. I also recognize your kind is having a moment on the Internet right now, but this face doesn’t want any part of the public squeezing celebration.

I don’t know what else to do. I’ve tried to reason with you. I’ve rubbed you with lotion and soothed you with the humidifier. I’ve eaten fruits and veggies and spent exorbitant amounts of money on your special treatments that I don’t even really understand. I took you to the doctor and was voluntarily poked and prodded and plucked until I was red in the face. I bought that fancy scrubber to deep-clean your soul, and yet still you plague me.

I’m at my wits end, Acne. Summer is fast approaching and I want to be able to go makeup-free without worrying about you. I want to splash in the ocean and lay in the grass and pose for photos with my friends without you lurking beneath the surface. I want to jump and dance and jive with confidence, and you’re holding me back.

Yes, I know the whole confidence thing isn’t totally your fault. I know I should feel beautiful and fierce even when you’re around. I know I should be able to see you and go about my day like you’re not in control, but it isn’t just about appearances, Acne. You hurt. You cause physical pain to my face and that is just not nice. You technically work for me, you know. I’m in control of this machine and you’re just some rowdy employee that has forgotten his place.

Look, I know we had fun in high school. Well, at least you had fun. But now I’m a grown up and I need to move on with my life and develop other, more mature skin problems. I need to devote my time to worrying about skin-tags and age spots and I can’t do that with you still hanging around. I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, but it’s true. You need me, but I don’t need you.

So this is my final plea. Please let me go, let me live and grow and laugh and cry without you. If you love me, you’ll want me to be happy, and if you don’t love me, that’s too bad because I love me and I’m done letting you control my life.

Love,

The Person Whose Face You Live On

(Featured image via)

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