The feeling of release, the feeling of tranquility, the feeling of true liberation; that’s right, I’m talking about the feeling when you pop that nasty whitehead sitting directly below your nostril. Everyone’s had at least one little bugger who shows up at the most inopportune time possible, pulsing with pus. You can feel him mocking you as he ruins what otherwise might be considered as a semi-aestheticly pleasing face. As he grows, so does your anger, until finally, you splatter his guts against the mirror. Nothing feels better than that moment you feel him burst open, and nothing is more satisfying than wiping away any trace of the murder. However, the homicide is never truly gone; in his place, a scar forms. A permanent reminder of the horrible, engorged mass that once was.