Dear Festering Sore (née Deep Pimple):
I have to admit that I thought you were pretty cool at first. I could feel the pressure of your new growth under the skin next to my nose, and I had that excited feeling I get whenever I anticipate something I enjoy.
I know that happily anticipating the growth of a deep, infected zit may sound odd, but I really do enjoy the satisfaction that comes from squeezing out all the junk after one of you has risen to full pus capacity. So, really, I was only excited to see you because I knew that I would eventually murder you.
It is not a sweet life into which you are born, and for that, I am sorry.
But that was way back in the days when you were known as Deep Pimple. Now, as butterflies transmogrify from caterpillars, you are known as Festering Sore, and I am much less crazy about you. There is no gleeful waiting, fingers tented, searching each morning for that telltale yellow head. No. Now, you are no more than a peeling scab, a peeling scab which resulted from a dissatisfying squeeze. If you had at least offered up some decent ooze, I might be more forgiving, but you did not.
You, Festering Sore, are a buzzkill.
In your present state, you defy make-up. You bleed after showers. You flake. I know that you like the attention and that you have been getting a lof it by the way people talk to you more than to me, but you need to get off my face now.
Your kind's hayday expired a century or so ago, and 2008 wants nothing to do with you. Nor, for that matter, do I.