I couldn't just get zits like normal kids. I would have welcomed blackheads. No, I had giant weeping pockets of pus, which left pockmarks all over my face and body. I looked like a "lunar landscape". All the remedies were tried, applied, and finally denied by me as useless. Prayer, meditation, masturbation, exacerbation, strained relations, no copulation and sweet isolation were a part of my life. All caused by my pizza face.
I wish I had read the great Charles Bukowski, at the time. He might have given me some relief with the knowledge that some other human being, having a creative soul, had also experienced this cruel torture. "Alas", I thought, "I was alone." Bukowski, the skid row poet laureate, who was the owner of the condition know as "Acne Vulgaris", and a more severe drinking problem than I would ever aspire to have, might have comforted me in my teen years. We had much in common. We both made out. We both got laid, we got paid, and as I learned from his writings, we all got "way-layed" in life.
So ye of not-so-fair-complexions, raise your glasses high, and drink to your imperfections! There are greater joys and woes, coming for you around the corner, pizza face!
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