Sitting on the carpeted floor of my bedroom, nose right up to the mirror, I stare at the small, pink bump

that was smack right between my eyebrows. It was probably just the size of a Sharpie mark, but it was bulbous, ready to burst. My mom, upon seeing that I had gotten my very first pimple, warned me not to touch it because it was going to scar. But there was something fascinating about it. In the middle of the pink bump, there was another tiny bump: a creamy colored one. Gently brushing my index finger over it, I could tell that the pale bump wasn’t flesh like the outer bump, but rather something delicate trapped within the pimple. I placed both my index fingers on either side of the pimple and gently squeezed it until the film protecting the creamy substance broke. The substance revealed itself as glistening pus

, thick enough to hold its shape. I continued to squeeze, extruding the pus out until only a perfectly circular gap remained.