• Jafei Pollitt

My Poor Pores

His name was Paul. Pimple Paul. And he had big dreams.

When he was only a day old, his mother, Mrs. Blackhead, told him he could be anything he wanted to be. So he chose to be a skydiver.

Now, seeing how he was an anthropomorphic being with little to no movement, his mother quickly retracted her statement and said he could be any blemish he wanted to be, so he chose to be a white head. He was going to be the biggest, ugliest, most annoyingly visible pimple on the face of… well Jafei’s face.

Pimple Paul went to Pimple pre-school, Papula Primary School, and Cystic College. He studied History and grew quite fond of the bacne revolution of 08′ in which the perfectly porcelain skin of Jafei’s back was invaded and populated heavily with pimples that lead to scars and to overall disappointment that she had to wear cardigans for life.

And although Mrs. Blackhead told Pimple Paul that the back was the safest, hardest area for the hands of their god, Jafei, to reach, he wanted to be seen and known. So he went after the area where no pimple has ever survived. The part of the skin that has seen the most of St. Ives Apricot Scrub and charcoal masks. Where pore perfecting toner wiped away whole armies with one swipe. The very. brink. of the nose.

dun.Dun.DUUUUUUUUUUUUN.

Many a blemish had never even seen the light when it came to this spot, for their Lord had purchased ointment after ointment defeating these men in their tracks. Even going as far to get Prescription Medication, a deadly bomb. Day by day troups would be extracted using the carefully crafted technique of their God in which she used her stubby, fat fingers to slowly suffocate each individual. It was brutal. It was horrific. But Pimple Paul knew what he wanted and he would stop at nothing to get to it.

So he began his journey to doom.

It was a late night on September 24th of 2017 after Jafei had fallen into one of her deep periods of sleep. She was dreaming about a random boy and her vape pen; a formula for a perfect nights rest. She was never going to wake.

He crept along the windy, vacant pores of the nose stopping every few minutes to gather germs and bacteria from her pillow that was smushed against her face. If he was to survive he would need as much grotesque shit as possible to clog up her pore and make her feel like she would never rid of him and possibly have adult acne which is a whole thing in itself.

As he got closer he heard the ancient growl of the God as she mumbled in her sleep “Do you want to hit this?” He didn’t know if she was referring to the vape pen, the boy, or both, so he ventured on.

The clock struck 12:00PM. He had made it, but the icy stings of the benzoyl peroxide had begun to creep upon him. He needed to act quick before he was eaten alive.

It was time to set up camp. Pimple Paul Laid out what he had carried; a splash of sweat, two grams of dust, and a lot of bacteria that’s hard to pronounce and very *scientific.*

with his little pod of a body, he nuzzled himself into the very center pore at the very tip of Jafei’s nose, hidden away from the enemies. Now it was time to start the process of inflammation. He ate everything that he had brought and slowly started to mold into the most atrocious, despicable, and un-coverup-able whitehead that the world had ever seen.

Now he waited.

After hours and hours of darkness, daylight broke and the screeching sounds of the Lords alarm struck the air with “CH-CH-CH-CH-CHANGES, TURN THE BEAT AROUND…”

It was now the moment of truth. Would Pimple Paul survive the brutal awakening of their God once she saw herself in the mirror?

Jafei shuffled to the bathroom before her roommate could because she’s a nice person in general, but this was the one thing she did for herself. She quickly closed and locked the bathroom door, turned around, squinted her eyes, and let out a phrase so cruel, so deafening, and so pungent that it woke a nun thirty miles away;

“you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

In a flash, Pimple Paul set to work gripping to the skin as tightly as possible, for he knew what was to come.  Their God raised her clammy palms and squeezed with all her might, but Pimple Paul held strong, persevering through the painstaking crushing of his little body.

Then, she pulled out her scrub and smashed it against him, rubbing this way and that. Pimple Paul was bloody and bruised, but, alas, he remained white and un-popped.

She tried the ointment, the foot scrub, the cheese-grater, the chainsaw. She tried to burn it off and scraped her face along the pavement, but nothing seemed to work.

Pimple Paul was too tenacious.

Finally, the last straw she would take. The only preventative measure to assure her face to be free of this protruding, vile blemish.

Jafei took her nose…

and ripped. it. off. *

dun.Dun.DUUUUUUUUUUUUUN. 

This was a real plot-twist for Pimple Paul. He did not see this coming. In fact, I don’t even think Jafei saw this coming. And to go even further, I don’t think I saw this coming.

But there it laid. Her entire nose. Limp and bloody in the bathroom sink. As Jafei looked down at Pimple Paul and he looked up at her, they shared one knowing glance; “this was the end.”

Jafei was now doomed to never have a nose again or to rush to a nearby emergency room before it was too late, but, let’s be honest, she was much too lazy to go through with that. And Pimple Paul was nothing without her blood supply and body warmth; he would die at any minute.

Mrs. Blackhead cried at the sight of her son, Jafei let out an immense sigh of disappointment for she had always wanted a nose job, but this was a little extreme. And the far away nun chanted “you deserved this for your sins!”

As Pimple Paul took his last, animated breath, he put a smile on his face for he had defeated his goal. He was the only known white-head to ever survive such brutality on Mount Nose.

As Jafei left him dying, she walked back out of the bathroom and her roommate screamed.

“calm down, it’s fine,” said the Lord.

And with that, Pimple Paul perished. Leaving behind a legend for decades to come.

And now awaited the next brave soldier to tackle the infamous “right-in-the-very-center-of-the-forehead.”

Her name… was Pimple Polly.

.

.

.

To be continued….

(If I feel like it)

*Now, I know what you, the reader, are thinking; ” I liked her article last week about the whole being proud of your chub, but this one? I think she’s on a steep decline and should probably move back in with her parents before it’s too late.” to which I say “you’re probably right, but let me just have this.”

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