O Ive, Saint of Apricot Scrub, hear my prayer!
Thou hast cleansed mine face and mine soul, and today I come to thee and ask that you exfoliate and make new my reputation at St. George’s Monastic School. Acne is a plague to the soul at St. George’s and I feel as if I am most stricken.
I ask of thee that your grainy and somewhat concerning-looking substance clear me of all zits and pimples, so that I can be asked to the St. George’s beach party-themed school dance and meet a husband that I’ll marry the day I turn 12. While my fellow sinners wash their faces with the murky water of the stream that we also clean ourselves in since we don’t have running water yet, I go to your house of worship, a Walgreens in aisle 7!
But alas, my faith is weak. While I cleanse and cleanse with the sacred scrub of your sainthood, my acne scarring grows deeper. I wonder why? In these times of doubt, let me be reminded of your steadfastness, St. Ive, that canonized you a saint in the first place. When you climbed that mountain, went without food or water for 14 days (now the amount of time the apricot scrub promises to clear skin), and begged God to clear your impurities, and He did – by a miracle, all of thine pus was eliminated, and you went from a 4 to a solid 7!
You were the fairest maiden in drawing class and the bullies stopped yanking upon your kirtle! It is a story that Sister Helen from St. George’s tells often, and is a constant reminder of the miracles that can take place when you place all of your faith in how good-looking one can be!
But St. Ive, um, thou shalt grant me forgiveness later but I’m starting to have second thoughts about the miracles your sacred scrub performs. I asked my father to read me the ingredients since I’m unable to read anything but the Good Book. Walnut shell? Thine ingredient is so harsh to the skin! How will that remedy my pains when I cleanse my face to banish pimples due to the stress of whether my crush Bartholomew noticed me in arithmetic class?
I can only relieve stress by screaming into my pillow every night and slamming my door when I storm up to my room in the middle of dinner so much; I must use thy tools at my disposal! But St. Ive, I’m starting to doubt this orange substance that feels weird on my skin may not be what’s best for me and my path to a cleansed soul and upped popularity.
Actually, you know what? I’m like super upset right now. “Thine miraculous cure” for a zitty face isn’t working, Ive. Yeah, I just dropped the saint from your name. No boy is ever going to want to be my group partner/property owner in anything if I keep using St. Ive’s. Unfortunately for you Ive, if that is your real name, my father is a tailor, and between my meltdowns over my pizza face, my dad said he isn’t going to sew that hole in your angel robe. So tell your father God, or his real name Unilever, that we are ready to take you down.
What are you going to do, St. Ive? Recommend I be sent to hell? Maybe I’ll see you there with my pimply face! Let’s just say it’s a miracle you have wings that can fly away from me because I would have hired a heretic and whore to stuff you inside a locker and give you a taste of your own medicine. I hope you like apricot. Amen.