I’ve never exactly been a porcelain-skinned beauty – at least not since I was ten. The day I turned eleven, horomones staged a gruesome revolt against my face, and even though I wouldn’t have boobs for another three years, the ravages of adolescence were apparent on the first day of sixth grade. Sadly, things didn’t really get better from there. When I was fourteen, I decided to try out this new-fangled Bath and Body Works grapefruit toner, which resulted in huge, inflamed papules about the size of a dime. Some topical steroid cream did the trick with those bad boys, but the absolute horror of walking around like Pizza the Hut took years to recede. In college, I blamed my zits on a steady diet of Camels, cheap beer, coffee, and drugs, so when the guy I was dating indelicately joked that he could lose a small dog in my pores, I took it as a statement of fact. And who could forget this past February? When a pimple showed up on my chin and proceeded to grow like bacteria in a petri dish?

This picture? Taken at our engagement party?

I’m not being cute. I’m sparing you all from having to see the pus-filled monstrosity that had built a little shanty shack on my face.

You may remember last month, when I went for a facial. I was pretty excited. I had visions of beautiful, clear skin that would eliminate the need for concealer – I was ready to pour my foundation down the drain. Well, it was a good thing I didn’t do that, because my skin is now EXPONENTIALLY WORSE than it was before I paid eighty bucks to have a stranger squeeze shit out of my pores. In a desperate fit, I spent fifty bucks on Philosophy’s benzoyl-peroxide-free acne kit. That too, did nothing.

So now what, folks? I am sick and tired of having skin that’s still fighting with mom over curfew and listening to Nine Inch Nails after lights-out. I’m ready to move on! But how? Tips? Tricks? Must-try products? I’m pretty sure my health insurance won’t cover a dermatologist, but I don’t want to show up on my wedding day with a face full of bullshit.