Volcano

I am not fit to be seen in public, for I have a zit. Not just any zit. I have a zit that looks as if it’s in its third trimester and ready to give birth to zitlets. I have a zit that would be comfortable on the underside of a cow. I have a zit that could star in a porno movie. I have a zit that seemingly wants to star in a porno movie. It, the zit, is triangulated perfectly between my cheekbone, nose and right dimple. This thing is showing up on GPS devices. When I look down, I become disoriented, for it interferes with my vision. I might as well tape the Liberty Bell to my face and imagine that no one will notice. I’ve had a few black eyes over the years—this thing clouds my vision like none of them could. It, the zit, is sucking blood from my brain. Alien is going to explode from my zit. Sorry to be so emetic, but I am preoccupied with this huge nipple growing on my FACE. It has a direct line to some wayward sebaceous gland. I want to mainline Accutane. I want to freebase Clearisil. I am a walking freak. I am an animal. Please don’t look at me, I’m hideous. This isn’t the kind of zit that you go to a dermatologist to get fixed. It’s the kind you go to Planned Parenthood to have taken care of. You can take my pulse just by looking at it. I have to suppress the urge to mutilate myself in order to obliterate it, the zit. It has its own incandescence. The lower the light, the bigger it grows. This is one hung zit. This zit needs a bra. Please pray for the death of my zit.