I’m 63 and I’ve discovered I have a zit. Imagine, at my age. This is a throwback to my high school days. Perhaps I was trying to relive my youth through the raising up of enough grease inside my skin to achieve one last zit.
It’s a whopper of fair size too. You’d think I wasn’t capable of it. You see, when you’re young, you’re pretty greasy, sort of like a new car all lubricated and ready to go out and race through life in a body that just like that in a car has never been left out in the outside air to start drying out. If you’re a pimply kid, your skin is almost dripping with ooze in addition to tons of sperm from your reproductive organ.
Talk about sperm.
You could look at somebody practically if you’re a 14-year-old boy and make them pregnant. I ran out of sperm a long time ago but that doesn’t stop me from trying to raise it. Oh, we’re talking about sperm here and I’m getting off the subject of having a zit.
Come to think of it, generating sperm and expending it and popping a luscious zit are almost the same kind of experience. They both feel so good. Pressure is applied in both cases and there is a sudden release of power, followed by a rush of disgusting bodily fluid. In fact, sperm and puss from a zit look pretty much the same although pus is a bit more yellowish in color.
I’m wondering what the color of my pus will be after 63 years should I decide to pop it? Will it be velvety in texture and smooth running like a pina colada drink, or will it be something else, more disturbing in appearance?
I couldn’t stand it. I had to find out. I went to the mirror and readying myself for whatever might come—I pinched it with my fingers. Nothing! No pop. What is this? Not only do I have the world’s oldest zit, but it’s also the toughest. That’s okay because I’m a tough man.
I went to my tool chest and retrieved a pair of pliers. Now we’ll see what happens. In the interest of preserving my skin I got two patches of cloth and positioned them over the teeth of the pliers. I squeezed the pliers on the zit. Nothing. No pop again.
This is Super Zit. Bullets bounce off it. Maybe I should call it Wonder Zit or Bat Zit or Robin Zit after a super hero. When I was 13 I was in my bedroom playing the part of Superman and a neighbor kid Tim Abbott who was a viscous little kid and a coward to boot came in to the room and saw me on the bed playing Superman (I was also making the swishing noises of flying with my mouth). Later, he told all the kids at school about it and got them to jeer and mock me with cries of “Superman” every time I appeared at the school.
Actually, with my build and good looks as an adult I would have been perfect for the role of Superman, not like that wimp in the current movie.
Oh, I’m getting off subject again. Back to the zit. I wasn’t able to pop it after soaking it for hours in hot water and so I went to bed. I slept on the side of my face where the zit was. The next morning, I awoke to find it had popped on its own.
There was a hole in the side of my face and instead of pus, there was this chunk of what looked like blue cheese. I removed it, and the skin immediately around it caved in and now I have this lunar crater on my face, but I’m confident it will heal.
I now miss my zit. It was my last link to my youth. I can’t be young again. I’m out of pus, and out of sperm.
I’m trying to grow another zit.