It Could Be Leprosy...

...or perhaps just a second adolescence.

But I'm having skin issues. In the last year and a half, my formerly porcelein-like complexion has become a rocky terrain that no one would want to come near (assuming that someone who might generally want to snuggle up in the first place hadn't already been frightened off by the divorce at a young age, the tattoos, and the bright yellow hair, that is).

When I'm not flaking dry skin off in snowdrifts that gross out even me - and that's saying a lot - I'm unable to keep from popping impressive zits. To be fair, I had an almost zit-free teenagerdom and really mostly missed out on the deep satisfaction to be had from a really good squirter (oh, come on. we all love that. don't act disgusted OR shocked.). I had to make up for that loss by plucking stubborn eyebrow hairs until my eyebrows were weirdly shaped commas that have never really recovered.

Now, I just pluck the one strange black hair that grows from my chin when I'm not squeezing acne or rubbing lotion the consistency of vasoline onto my forehead in an attempt to keep my skin adhered to my face.

I'm not sure what to do about this, but if I'm not unique, now I understand what all those skin-care product lines out there are about. I'm about to let one of those creepy Renegerist models talk me out of my hard-earned money and into a one-ounce bottle of hand cream that retails for $100.