nose when I was in 9th grade. I was

unprepared. I was mortified. I put a Band Aid

on my cheek and refused to leave the house.

My oldest brother, Jonathan, laughed at me.

At 23, he was a veteran of the zit wars and

was not afraid to take matters into his own

hands. I place the blame for my zit-popping

fetish squarely on his shoulders.


He says it better than I ever could:

I love popping zits. The ones that shoot the
pus into the mirror are my favorite. I also
like the ones that come out slow and hold
their form like Play-Doh. I don't like the
painful stubborn zits that not only do not
pop, but then hurt like hell after you've
tried to pop them.


Mmm hmmm.


In all fairness, popping zits is a real bad idea.

That's what all the dermatologists tell

me, and I've had enough bloody bad

experiences to know it's true. Somehow,

though, it's never stopped me.


People who never get pimples hate talking

about zits and think that popping them is

gross. (They think I'm disgusting.)


Those of us who get zits know better. Zit

popping is an art form, and the only way to

maintain dignity in the face of an all-out

assault on your face.


You have to wait for the right time. As my

brother tried to say, popping a whitehead

before it's ready is at best uneffective and

at worst downright painful.


When you do find the right time and a ripe

whitehead, you have to be careful. If you're

not brave enough, you're left with just as

much white as when you started. But, get

greedy and squeeze too long and you've got

the blood/scab issue to deal with.


The game above works on these principles.