Phantom Pimples

Even now as an adult, I find that I occasionally get those irritatingly unattractive blemishes of the skin upon my face known to many as Pimples, or, to others, as Zits, or, when it's one that's real, real big and red and full of white puss, "This is my friend Fred."

But they're never as bad as we think they are, are they? Usually, as with the occasional neglect of face washing from a few weeks ago manifestations-of-our-laziness pimples, they are like the red wine stain of a go-to wedding shirt - no one ever really notices it. I notice though. Probably because I know it's there. And I notice the pimples too and it's like they plead with me to obliterate them (similar to how Chris' evil pimple talked to him on that episode of The Family Guy.) Even when they are practically invisible popcorn blackheads that I can feel ever-so-slightly under the skin, they seem to summon me to the nearest restroom where I must "Oh Shit" peer, point blank, into the mirror and RIGHT NOW use each of my index fingers to mash on them from just beyond the perimeter; slowly at first, gradually applying pressure unbeknowst to pain, until, gloriously, the mass of mucous is released from my face and splattered back out unto the restroom earth from which it was formed. Backing away from the OCD trance, I look up into my face with an ere of victory only to observe the undeniable redness in the place on my face where I'd just mashed and the capitulating clear blood clusters that slowly ooz from the cavity of what was once a mere invisible mass of slightly uncomfortable build-up that actually called out to no one but me.

"Had I just waited another day or two until the zit was ripe for the pressing, I could still be outside confidently feeding that pretty little insecure girl red-liquor-drink lines and setting snares by which to try and take advantage of her later." But every time it seems as if it is beyond me to stop myself until it is too late.

How much more often does this example of self control-lessness play out in our lives? One place I can think of points back to the reason that one whom has a seasoned eye can almost always pick off the insecure, wanting for attention closet whores at parties by noticing their certain little overly-obsessed-with-their-attention intricacies that they appear to be so eager to put on display as if at a booth at a science fair. Among these, which are several, the most apparent is the caked-on makeup and eye shadow and blond streaks in their hair fakeness that makes them look like a Jersey Shore casting call reject. The makeup, you see, when worn in such abundance that the expressions from her face are hardly noticeable, is the phantom pimple that leaves its scar on the appearance of her face more as a manifestation of the means of hiding rather than that that has been hidden.

Of course, there are such imperfections in us all that should be cleverly concealed, right? Clinging to an undeniable intent on anonymity, pimples are ugly and it is deeply ingrained within us, in our survival-of-the-fittest sexual pursuits, to strive to be as beautiful as humanly possible.

However, in our pursuit of physical maintenance and/or improvement do we, at some point of diminishing returns, begin to lose what it is to even look human. Instead, we begin to collectively move toward an articulation of the pop-culture inspired image of of a pseudo-human. (Isn't the definition of Superficiality - to regard only the surface of things.) But the surface of what things, and how is what is attractive influenced? For there is no supreme court Justice of Beauty whom sits atop a tall podium with an iron-clad gavel in hand, passing judgement on all who dare to face the crowd of day.

Instead, it is a subjective rule that's beset in each man and woman yet it is similarly drawn within each of us according to popular culture and the sub-culture within the geography that one lives and the social circle or crew in which one runs.

The pop culture component, obviously, is that which is promoted on MTV or by famous athletes and celebrity movie stars and musicians. The effect of chicken head revolutionaries like Pamela Anderson and The Beatles and the Governah, Arnold Schwarzenegger, impact the way each of us view style and beauty and philosophy and economics and the political issues of the time and what it means to be Cool J like L.L or wear Trucker's hats like Ashton Kutcher. These mainstream artists and even those of them who are merely the faces of art like Miley and Brittney, through the power of mass communication, have cleverly molded the icon of the Cool and, too, of the Beautiful.

And by way of TMZ Television and bloggers like you and smart phones the MJ's (pick one) of the day implant themselves all across America and most of the world into your high schools and colleges and rough street porches and in the Cheers of your choosing where these superficial ideals are perceived and consumed by the masses and purchased by those whom are able and willing to go that extra mile for the sake of the preservation of his or her vanity. In these few brave, cool people is the gavel of the sub-culture borne. For they wear their fake-bake muscles and plastic breasts and Coach purses amidst a confident swagger that draws the rest in like the sun does it's planets and the style portrayed therein bounces like balls contagiously against one another from the earliest adaptors to the mids to the so-two-years-ago-jeans lates and this trickle down continues and the earlies are always buying and trying and the mids keep their calculators on them at all times and the latest of the late adaptors may very well be the least superficial of all, but they surely spend most of their life whining of the ways of the present and nervous in the place of uncomfort that is anywhere outside their safe little existence.

So is it wrong to be that way - to sport an imperfection rather than so blatantly hide it with the efforts associated with fashion. Is it right to be a pho-hawk metro dude who looks like a lady? Or is the right really somewhere in between? If it is right to exist in the Mid, then us waiters-on-acceptance must thank the Pamela's and tanning salon patrons and also those crotchety old stubborn mountain men because without them, either side, then how would one ever know what Beauty is?

Indeed, popcorn pimple poppers have been around since the time of the leaves of Adam and Eve. They exist in every continent and in every culture. For change is a way of beauty and beauty is a human quality and wherever there are humans there will be those who aim to perfect upon our appearance and also our condition and also those, from the perspective of the middle-dwelling masses, who take the aim for perfection just a little too far too fast. The doing so of perpetually changing in an effort to achieve that envied form, sadly, almost always is produced in selfish aims, but the succeeding, gladly, is an infectious being.

"The animal does not lie beneath the thin layer of our skin, but beneath the thin layer of our clothes." Yahia Lababidi

Get in where you fit in, but remember not to fail to Bee Yourself.

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