Accutane to tame it. Each pill came in a nearly impregnable (hah) blister pack which required multiple steps to open: first, slide open the box and see the outline of a hydrocephalic fetus; second, remove a serrated paper tab with the silhouette of a pregnant woman and the red ban-symbol through it, and finally pop the liquid-filled gel pill through a rather tough plastic laminated foil surface. (The packaging shown at right is nowhere near as extreme.) I would later give the paper tabs with the "no pregnancy" symbol to friends and co-workers to encourage contraception. But I digress.
1979 Ford Mustang: one time I recall taking a corner through a freshly red light, tires squealing as I accelerated through second gear, laying on the horn to make sure the other people didn't act too soon on their green light and get in my way. But I digress: obviously I'm stalling.
metal implement. It hurt like hell: she pressed with that damn thing really hard, all across my nose, forehead and cheekbones. Push down, scrape across, wipe on a tissue, repeat. No small talk, no lectures, just intense concentration.
The last time I went she came out to the waiting room to get me. I stood up and said hello to her, and she never looked me in the eyes: she mumbled hello as she started scanning my face. I sat through that last agonizing session as she pushed, scraped, and wiped my throbbing face. Yes, I stopped going because it was a long way from home, because it was painful, and because it didn't stop the pimples that actually bothered me, but mostly I stopped going because that woman creeped me out.
She obviously loved her job, but she loved it way too much: she was a sebum junky, a zit juice vampire, a woman on a mission of vengeance against the acne that had obviously scarred her for life. To this day, when people talk about being "passionate" about their job I think of her.