As some of you may or may not recall, I have a zit. It is not acne. I don't look like Edward James Olmos. I don't need Proactiv. It is a zit.

Now, this zit only appears alone. He never has friends. His appearance is randomly located somewhere on my skin. He appeared again today.

Today I also decided to name him Mitt. He appears in places where he is not welcome. He spews rancid goop out of his mouth. No matter how hard you squeeze, you never get all that you were looking for.

A little history on Mitt the Zit. He has been hanging around in my genome for some time. Going back to early spring, he had a huge reception on my forearm. Much useless shit was spewed from his mouth. After a week or so, his time ran out and he went back to regroup for his next attack. A few days later he appeared on my neck. He must have really been planning something big because it was epic. I felt like a teenager again.

Mitzi decided it was time to do something. We went to the store and got some face washing stuff, some face moisterizering stuff, and other random things that I have yet to try. I diligently started using the new goodies and after a week or so, it looked like I had conquered Mitt.

I was wrong. Very very wrong.

Mitt decided that since my face was now off limits, my manboob was free game. After a short stint of making me think I was having chest pains filled with cancer and a cholesterol filled heart, he moved south to my belly. Once my belly was finished ejecting his vitriol, he went further south. Can't pop Mitt down there.

Mitt again showed up my my arm last week. I killed him dead with much squeezing. Thinking I had conquered him for a while, I went to enjoy a blissful sleep.

When I woke up, my nose hurt. Thinking I had bonked myself in the face, I crawled out of bed and looked in the mirror. Mitt was now on my nostril. Squeeze, scrape, wrangle, smoosh, bitchslap. Mitt took a beating.

Slow forward a couple days to today. Mitt seems to be defeated. My nostril seems better. Mitt has gone down to a small annoyance. I grab my coffee and head downstairs. Waking up I start stretching, scratching, yawning. After the bones stop the snap crackle pop, I reach to scratch an itch on my head.

Motherfucker Mitt is on my head...in my hair. I give up.