I have a confession to make: I’m a popper. Not a popper of pills, mind you. I am a popper of pimples. I know that’s gross, and I’m sorry. However, I do think that, at the very least, I owe it to you, dear reader, to hold myself responsible: My name is Sara Barron, and I’m a pimple-popping addict.
My mother was also an addict, and these sorts of things, see, they run in the family. I first noticed I had a problem just as soon as I went through puberty. I’d get delightful bursts of whiteheads on my face and, I swear to god, it was like they were talking to me. Pop me … pop me … you simply HAVE to pop me. The idea that some people get zits, and are capable of just leaving them alone seems utterly bizarre to me. If you’d said, “Sara: Here’s the deal. There’s a ripe and massive whitehead on your face. You can either A) Pop it, but then you have to run the Boston Marathon, or B) Not pop it, but then you won’t have to run the Boston Marathon,” I’d be like, “Get me some bandaids for my nipples, motherf**ker. I will be running that marathon. And I will be popping that zit.” Keep reading »
