Mutually assured eruption

Sunday morning I woke up with a giant angry zit on my chin.

It was big and red around the edges with a pulsing yellowish white core.

I had felt it percolating below the surface since Friday, a large painful bump just waiting to burst.

I’m 39 years old.

If there’s ever been a time when “What the fuck” was appropriate, this was it.
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What did you do?

I popped that sucker like an old pro, of course.

I’d forgotten what a great pleasure it is doing that – pressing hard enough on either side until a mess of goo and blood blasts out, creating a tiny crime scene on your mirror or wall or countertop.

Cool.
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For my thirteenth birthday I had a party with some girlfriends.

“What games can we play? We gotta have games,” I demanded like the whiny hormonal teenager that I was.

“Here’s an idea: We get little hand mirrors for you and all your friends. When I say go, everybody starts popping pimples – the first one to cover their mirror with pus wins. Good?”

That was my Dad. Brilliant and twisted. It’s why I love him so.
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Now it’s Tuesday and thankfully the zit has receded to a tiny hard-crusted lump that’s just begging to be picked off.
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Um, Heather?

That scary little nutsack in North Korea is popping off nukes. He says “war is coming to U.S. soil.”

And you’ve just devoted an entire blog entry to your zit. What gives?

Zits are caused by stress. If that ain’t stressful, I don’t know what is.
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I am listening to: An iTunes song search on ‘pus’ (there are eight!)
I am reading: Henry James – The Portrait of a Lady
And I am: Crusty