By Marla Abdul
I have a neck pimple. Right now. And grays. Isn’t there some like anti-gravity law that should not allow this to happen? How can I be getting so old that my kneecaps foretell inclimate weather but my neck- MY NECK- decides to get clogged pores in the form of disgusting, swollen lumps.?! It is utterly gross and unacceptable. I’d write a letter of complaint, but I’m pretty sure Mother Nature didn’t leave a forwarding address and God could give a shit.
I’m considering popping the sucker and putting toothpaste on it but it’s in that awkward stage where you can’t do a damn thing about it because it’s big enough to be noticeable but not yet big enough to pop. It will just get in that more swollen and agitated state that you then have to cover with hair and be careful to not pull it into a ponytail at the risk of blowing your cover. Ass.
I suppose I will have to succumb to its power and just ride this thing out. I’m really glad I have an interview tomorrow where my back will be to various possible co-workers and my pimple can scope them out for me.
It’s totally going to turn into a second head. I can feel it. And not a cool second head either. It’s going to be like this asthmatic pocket-protector wearing nerd that shuns everyone for time alone in a dark hole named Norman. We’re going to grow old together and knit things and complain about how we used to go out but now because of each other we bitterly argue about who will be kicked off of Top Chef this week.
Sigh. It’s been real, life. Thanks for the memories. I better go get some sleep to prepare myself for a big day in my new double-headed life. Goodnight, Norman.