I am sixteen, going on seventeen

I hate my face. And I don't mean I hate the way I look. Sometimes, in the right soft lighting and the right angle, I happen to look alright.

No, I mean, I hate its vile, vile oiliness. Literally. It's like it has a life of its own and has taken to tying flailing women to railroad tracks while wringing its hands and laughing cruelly. Oh, vile, vile oily skin, with your upturned mustache and pointed chin. You are a villain!

And you used to have an accessory, a person I shall only refer to as "M." Although he may not truly be the culprit to these eruptions on my face, I do not like to think otherwise (that maybe, it could be the weather, or the goddamn raging hormones, or...). He is away. Far, far away. Maybe as far away as the next galaxy, or as far away as the nearest Blimpie. It's all relative, when it comes down to it. He is far, and that is all. Like my face. It is sad bad. And that is all.