I have a zit on my nose. This is the first zit I have had in fifteen years. When I was an adolescent, I had terrible, terrible skin, far worse than your standard adolescent skin. I eventually went to a dermatologist, who prescribed an acne medication that, though it evidently put me at risk for damage to my liver, intestines, eyes, ears, and skeletal system, as well as serious psychiatric problems up to and including suicide (none of which anybody told me at the time), had the virtue of banishing my acne once and for all.
Or so I thought.
Now I have a zit on my nose, and I’m terrified that, if my acne is coming back, the rest of my adolescent miseries can’t be far behind. Soon I will be having dozens of conversations every day that mirror this one:
W.E.: “Hey, Faustus, where’d you get your pants?”
FAUSTUS (smiling proudly at his bright green pants with white piping on the side): “J.C. Penney.”
W.E.: “They’re really . . . spiffy.”
(W.E. bursts into poorly muffled laughter and immediately starts talking to his friends, pointing at FAUSTUS. FAUSTUS looks down at pants and knows people hate him but doesn’t understand why.)
Dear God, do they have Accutane for the soul?