How is it possible to still have flaming, throbbing spots in one's late 20s, early 30s and onwards? Not the occasional and singular adult spot that, hey, you might even like a teeny bit because it gives you character. I mean full-on, connect-the-dots acne, people. It's never permanent but, by god, when it strikes there's nothing I fear more than having to greet the beauty world face to face.
I blame birth control, hormones/antibiotics/blah/blah/blah in the food/air/water and stress. It's irritating (literally) and it's a mystery why nothing at all ever really, truly works. The power of hormones... ah, it is life defining, isn't it? It makes me, personally, want to hide behind curtains of hair, and I've become very adept a applying a bit of maquillage. To the untrained eye, my skin looks pretty darn smooth and peachy.
30, my friends, is the new 14 in skin years. Unlike dogs years, the skin on many a woman nowadays seems to have regressed, digging in its heels at the unappealing sge of the pizza face.
That said, I should probably not pick them either, huh? I gave it up for lent (oh, how I long for the instant gratification of a good spot popping) and, er, I suppose it's going okay. How many days left again?