You have no way of knowing this, but the fate of the next decade of your life rests on my shoulders.
Yes, I am a pimple. A zit. A whitehead perched atop an angry-looking, red mound three-quarters of an inch to the left of your nose. So what?
You are in a mild tizzy, running late to your third date with Sam. You’ve driven most of the way to the restaurant. There’s a pretty good chance you won’t notice me in time.
Regardless, when you do notice me, you’ll see me as an enemy. Considering Sam’s radiant smile, toned physique, beautiful skin, and many other alluring qualities, I can certainly understand that.
But I am not your enemy. I’m part of a much larger cosmic intelligence that knows what’s best for you. You see, beneath the qualities that make Sam likable and attractive, there is a deeply insecure and unstable person. Sam is possessive, mercurial, and has a “complicated” relationship with a number of substances and ex-lovers. Sam might generously be described as “loosely hinged.” If the two of you continue dating, you will learn (a bit too late to bow out easily) that Sam devotes no less than 20 hours a week to internet “research” and “advocacy” about vaccine-related conspiracy theories, engaging in vitriolic arguments with strangers on Facebook, and doxing pediatricians.
I’ll hand it to ya: the two of you do have chemistry. If I succeed in my objective, along with a few other cosmic nudges I won’t divulge, I will be helping to rob you of several thrilling and romantic months. That’s the sad truth.
If all goes to plan, you’ll come home tonight, look in the mirror, and realize with horror that I was there all along. You’ll replay the evening in your head many times, changing the camera angle to Sam’s point of view. Except in your visualization, I will become implausibly gigantic, impossible to divert your attention away from for more than a couple of seconds at a time; and even then, only with great effort.
You’ll imagine me sweating, shiny, supple, and immense, like a fat, bald man in a hot tub. You’ll imagine Sam excitedly walking towards the restaurant, eager to embrace you, smell your hair as you hug, feel your lips pressed together, laugh, and exchange confidences. After seeing me—your aggressive and asymmetrical giant of a pimple—the Sam in your humiliating fantasy will feel disappointed, revolted, and filled suddenly with condescension towards you. After all, if you can’t be bothered to do a zit check before a date, what can you be trusted with?
Nothing. That’s what you will tell yourself.
You’ll imagine Sam’s disgust and borderline fascination fused together. You’ll imagine this becoming the dominant—and perhaps sole—emotional hue that every thought and memory of you will ever prompt in your almost-lover.
Only after months of therapy will you be guided to the healthy philosophical perspective that having a poorly timed zit isn’t the event that should define your entire life. You’ll realize how you blew things out of proportion, and you’ll heal.
It is true that, if I succeed in my objective, I will be causing you pain that you don’t deserve. A week from now, after you’ve made several failed attempts to line up a fourth date, Sam will call you to break things off before either of you waste any more time together. You’ll be distressed and wonder whether it was my fault, something you said, or perhaps a more socially competent and attractive lover.
Yes, I am a conspicuous, yellow-white zit with his own fully formed personality. My appearance is so revolting, yet magnetic to the eyes, that my silhouette will be permanently etched into the retinas of any attractive and self-respecting person unfortunate enough to lay eyes on me. I literally look like I could put someone’s eye out if I exploded at the wrong time.
But I tell you I am truly your friend. You will never know that for all the pain I may seem to intend or cause you, my purpose is to spare you the far more protracted torment of a relationship with Sam.
My burden is a heavy one. The quality of the next decade of your life rests on my not being discovered too soon. If only I could get through to you!
Alas, I’ve done all that I can, and must leave the rest to fate.
I try to focus on the present as we ride together in tense silence. Peering through the windshield,
I finally see the sign for the restaurant. You put your turn signal on and I allow myself the indulgence of excitement and hope; I’ve nearly made it! Less than two more minutes of not being noticed and I will achieve my mission. All you have to do now is park, not look into the mirror (You are in a hurry!), and I’ll do the rest.
Wait, don’t do that. Quit adjusting your mirror!
Don’t. Don’t!
Pay attention to the time! Don’t look!
Okay, just lower your hands. I’m pretty sure you spotted me, but let’s not do anything rash.
Don’t do anything you can’t undo!
No—not the index fingers of doom!
No. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!