It's bad, right?

You wake up, and you can feel the zit on your forehead. Without even touching it, you know it's huge. It even hurts a little, obviously because your skin has been stretched so far from it's idle state. Your fingers move across it, and you swear there is a marked shift in altitude for your finger at the zit's summit. It's real bad. As you head to the bathroom, you clear away the memories of the dreams you just finished having as you prepare to soon fill that space with shock, disgust, and calculations of depth and circumference. Before looking in the mirror, you rub your eyes one last time making sure your gaze is as clear as possible. Your eyes meet with your reflection's, and slowly you tilt your head upwards. "My god," you think to yourself "these are the zits they write abo... wait, where is it?" You run your fingers over the spot again, this time watching your reflection closely, as if there's a chance that maybe it's not really you in the mirror, but it is. Instead of a snowcapped summit, there's a barely visible mound which wouldn't even qualify as a small speed-bump were your forehead a road. Instead of a sickly, tensioned red, it's color is that of all the other flesh around it, save for a little rosy complexion near the base. You knew it was bad, in your mind, you had put it all together and you understood the truth of the situation. You were so sure you had it all figured out. You had it figured out, all of it, until you looked at your reflection. Sure, it still hurts a little when you put on your hat to face the cold, but it's okay. It's better than okay, actually, it's fine. Maybe it's even better than fine, you realize, because today it will serve as a reminder that the truth is not what you conjure up in a dream-drunk haze, but rather it is your self.