It started off as a tiny bump. It felt sore when touched, or even when you leave it on its own. The tiny bump escalated into a 'mole' over the next few days. The mole fixated there for a few days, up to a week. Past few lessons had taught me to be patient. I waited. And waited. Everyday, I resisted the urge to move my itchy fingers to it. Impatient is my middle name. It was terrible waiting for its emergence. Then finally, one day, it began to harden. Still not ready, I told myself. It must feel pointy upon touch. The time was not right yet. I waited again. Then came a day when it was sharp to touch. It felt prickly and I felt a sense of exhilaration. I struggled to contain my excitement as I dealt with it with extreme care. It stung a little. I continued my harassment at it. The surface was sometimes too slippery for a firm grip. I enlisted the help of a tissue paper, my trusty sidekick when dealing with these terrible creatures. I experimented with various angles, to get to the perfect position before I gently squeezed it. When that tiny monster emerged, fireworks were set in my heart. The satisfaction of getting it out was beyond words. I would proudly show it to my mum like it was my best essay in school. I would scrutinise it and wonder how the hell did it get buried under my skin. It was amazing. I had conquered it. The fucking pimple was finally out, and that 1cm x 1cm area of my face was flattened once again.