RUN, RUDOLPH, RUN

If I’m really good-hearted underneath it all and I take a moment to reflect today — really reflect — on what’s going on in the Middle East, and in Zimbabwe, and Chechnya…

… and if I put everything in perspective by being grateful that at least I’m not one of those poor, poor orphans in Kosovo, or a starving, oppressed North Korean, or one of Duncan Nutter‘s kids…

… and if I count my blessings and remind myself that at least I don’t have some incurable disease, and at least I was born with all my limbs and senses and organs intact and at least I live in a free country where food and opportunity are relatively abundant…

… if I do all of those things… THEN can I complain that life just isn’t fair because I woke up this morning with a gigantic, hideous zit on my nose?

I mean, I know that throughout history, plenty of people have had it worse: slaves, for example, or child laborers in the Depression, or anyone who lived before the invention of toilet paper. But is it okay if, for just a minute or two, I curse my cruel fate and whine about how much life sucks?

Let me explain: this is no ordinary pimple. It is quite possibly the most enormous and grotesque zit on record in all of humankind. It rocketed from obscurity overnight to become the #1 most noticeable feature of my face. It’s larger than my first apartment. When I gaze downward, it actually obstructs my view. Sure, being blighted by this bulbous, oozing monstrosity is not as bad as being a woman living under the Taliban, but at least then I’d be able to hide my face behind a veil, and no one would know my shame.

And of all the places to have a zit, why the end of my nose? People are forced to stare at it whenever they look at me — at least when they don’t turn away in disgust. Every time I talk to someone, I’m thinking, They totally staring at it right now. How can they not be? They’re pitying me, they’re mocking me, they’re praying something like this never happens to someone they love. I mean, watching a loved one break out in nausea-inducing whiteheads is better than, say, watching them wither away from an eating disorder. But for just a moment can I pretend that it’d be better to hear “Sweetie, you need to eat something!” than “Have you looked into Acutane?” Oh, man, that would be great.

I mean, it’s just not fair! I hate having adult acne! I hate looking like a mutant. Why me? I don’t deserve such pain, such sorrow, such hardship! My life stinks, and I’m suffering more than anyone has ever suffered! I don’t deserve this, I really don’t!

Okay, I’m done now. That’s all I wanted. Thanks.

And now, my heart goes out to the Cambodian refugees and the starving children in the Sudan.