Tommy winced at the mirror. The space above his shirt collar was pocked with zits. They were an ugly red color with yellowish-white centers. He touched the one on the tip of his nose and flinched. Placing a finger on each side of it, he took a deep breath and squished. His eyes squeezed shut, forcing out a few tears. Chunky white liquid squirted out and splashed against the mirror. Tommy sighed with the release of the pressure. One down, too many to go. The aroma of garlic tickled his nose. He took a huge sniff.
Tommy’s hands dropped to his side. “Coming, Mother.”
He dabbed at his tears with his shirt sleeve. Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, he wiped the mirror, leaving behind white streaks. He almost didn’t see the chunks of white on the sink. Wiping those, too, he threw the soggy paper in the toilet.
Tommy’s mother was in the kitchen, making spaghetti. She stood at the stove, stirring the sauce with a wooden spoon in one hand, and with the other she was excavating her nostrils. The right nostril was a no-go, but from the left she produced a beautiful quarter-inch long snot nugget, crunchy and brown on the bottom, a nice gooey green on top. She rolled it between her thumb and index finger until it achieved an even consistency; then she flicked it upward. It stuck to the ceiling above the stove, right between two of her most prized specimens, Mondo Mucus and Thank God I Can Breath Again.
"Ah, you're here." Tommy’s mother turned away from him and hiked her blouse up to her shoulders, revealing her splotchy, waxy skin that always reminded Tommy of headcheese. “Two, five, and seventeen,” she said.
Tommy sighed, but set to work. Two and five were no problem, but No. 17 Blackhead was a real bitch. Luckily, he hadn’t chewed off his thumbnails yet. They left half-moon indentations, but his mother only squeaked once. When he was done, Tommy wiped the goop, which looked like mashed potatoes mixed with dirt and blood, on his mother’s bra strap.
She thanked him and placed a hand on his cheek, smiling. “You’re growing up so fast,” she said. “I remember when you had to stand on the chair to reach seventeen.”
Tommy rolled his eyes. “Motherrrrr. You’re embarrassing me.”
She opened the fridge and removed a crinkled foil tube; the end of it was folded and rolled half way. “Now run along and find your father,” she said, handing the tube to Tommy. “He needs help with his hemorrhoids.”
Opening: Sarah L. .....Continuation: blogless_troll