Lots of personal hygiene topics are discussed only at home, where the people who can't leave you are forced to put up with your eccentricities. Mine are no different. Bryan is continually subjected to my non-stop inspection ritual of finding a possible pimple.
Though having a zit is not a desired prospect, popping one is an entirely different monster altogether. You have to admit-or you don't, I suppose-in any case, some people may reluctantly agree that there are few things as satisfying as popping a zit.
I try and speculate why the attraction is so magnetic. If I do find one on poor Bryan, I can't for the life of me turn away. I must pop it. Immediately. It cannot continue to exist in my presence. My hands flex into pinchers and reach out to the offending object with the excitement and anticipation of a scientist discovering a planet. I become vaguely aware of my surroundings and Bryan is forced to tell me if my behavior is appropriate with phrases like, "Stop, that hurts", "I'm sleeping", or "I'm giving a toast, can this wait?"
And so the torture continues. I just don't foresee the draw waning in intensity. Bryan will continue to come home from work, be pummeled in the genitals by two bouncing dogs while juggling his laptop carrier only to get a pinch on the jaw from his ill-adjusted wife.
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