I am writing to you in reference to your recent outburst of 6 June, 2011.
I did not appreciate your attitude then, nor do I care for your incessant lingering about my face. I am turning 26 next month and it’s time for this behavior to stop. I’m an adult now, and I don’t need you bringing all this unnecessary drama into my life.
And where were you when I was a kid, anyway? Where were you when I was 15 years old with crystal clear skin? Would it have hurt you to show up when I was already awkward, with pink braces, being picked on by the boys at school? Back then you would have been the least of my worries, but you just weren’t there for me. And now you show up after all this time expecting me to, what, welcome you with open arms?
Too little too late, Pimples.
So here I am, an almost-26-year-old-woman sitting alone in half darkness, writing this to you with Colgate Total all over my face. I’ve been Googling and self-diagnosing, and the internet seems to think that toothpaste will help resolve our issues. But I don’t know Pimples, I really don’t. The second I think I’m free of you, you just pop up again, completely unexpected. Would it kill you to call in advance?
What’s your obsession with my face anyway? You wouldn’t bother me so much if you popped up from time-to-time on my back. In fact, I think this would be very beneficial to our relationship—maybe we could even be friends.
I do all the right things, Pimples, I really do. I take the right vitamins, I drink so much water I sometimes worry I’m single-handedly responsible for the droughts in Australia. I eat all the good foods and I use all the right products. So what the fuck is your problem?
I hoped we could discuss this as mature adults but it seems like all you want to do is resort to adolescent tactics. I didn’t want to have to stoop to your level, but you give me no choice.
If you show up again, I will pop you.