If only it were possible to flounce from one's own face. 

Remember my little skin issue? No, not the potentially-worm-related one (which is apparently something called "granuloma" that is only a big deal if you care about having feet that don't look like your grandfather's); the Trump-related one, a.k.a. the one that demonstrated that the state of my pores correlates precisely with the state of our country.

It's still happening (I was treating it before I left for Ohio, but a week of using hotel room soap because I forgot my own seems to have set me back). I had my dermatologist look at a little spot on my nose that was concerning me, and she had trouble understanding which spot she was looking at because - and I quote - "there are so many spots that it's hard to tell what's what."

Apologies for this image, but come on: it's amazing.

(Also you have to go read the article I found it in right now.)

Let's put aside the disturbingness (by which I mean amazingness)of that image up there for a second. We have to have a discussion about my face. WHAT. IS GOING. ON.

I only look like a human being in that photo because of this stuff.

I am very, very bad at hiding things from people. If I’m embarrassed, my face helpfully alerts everyone around me to that fact by turning a lovely shade I call “deep eggplant.” If I’m annoyed, you know I’m annoyed because I sound annoyed, even if I say that I'm not annoyed (sorry, Kendrick). And if I’m excited, I am the very worst person in the world at playing it cool; my cartwheels are much better than my poker face.

If I’m stressed or upset, though – as I have been these past couple of weeks – do you know what happens? My entire body falls apart. My face somehow becomes simultaneously oilier and drier (whee!). I break out like a teenager. My hands (or, more precisely, my cuticles) require daily vigilance so as not to frighten casual bystanders. All this falling-apart, of course, makes me feel even worse, when I was already feeling bad to begin with.