I'm standing behind you, on the Max train, during afternoon rush hour. You: an average vanilla PDX dude, cargo shorts and a plaid shirt. Me: a lady on the train listing to Enya on my headphones. It's hot and we're packed in tight and I'm staring at the back of your neck. You turn your head slightly and I see it: right at the base of your ear, just under your cheekbone, hidden from your view in the mirror during morning preparations, a giant swollen blackhead aching to burst forth from its host pore. I'm overcome with a cold sweat of taboo desire: I can hardly restrain myself from leaning forward, thumbs aimed and ready to squeeze, whispering softly "here, let me take care of that for you". My breath becomes shallow and frantic; I still have three stops before I can exit the train and gather my wits, and my desire is growing by the second. You have no clue about any of it- you have no clue why Tinder dates never call you back, or why small children start crying when they see the right side of your head. You're gloriously oblivious to any of the social queues that would otherwise alert you to this throbbing/heaving/groaning mass of sebum and oil coagulated and hardened in one of your overwrought, stretched-beyond-capacity pores. I'm praying that I see you again on the train this afternoon, and that you still haven't discovered the benefits of comprehensive skin care. Because sir, you are giving me LIFE, and I hope you continue never washing or closely checking that gross-ass face of yours. XOXO SEBUM QUEEN