This morning, I went to have a mole removed by my dermatologist. He's been hounding me about it because it made him "uncomfortable." It wasn't cancerous, or even large and hideous. He just didn't like it. For a while I thought my doctor just needed to man up; lots of things are "uncomfortable," but eventually his discomfort morphed into wildly unlikely threats.
"If you don't let me remove it, then it will grow into a second head. A second, cancerous head."
He prodded more...
"And it will be an annoying cancerous head. That whines about how it has cancer all the time."
When that didn't work, he upped the threat to one I just couldn't ignore...
"It'll have a Boston accent."
So I finally acquiesced, and made an appointment to have it removed. It was supposed to be a simple procedure that he could do in the office. What he failed to mention was that while simple, it was also God-awful, and would hurt like bloody hell.
I arrive thinking that he will be using some fancy, high-tech laser. At most I'm expecting to feel a little warmth. But nooooooo...see, my doctor works in Medieval Times, and instead of engaging in modern technology, this motherfucker is planning on using a weensy apple coring device. Basically he wanted to stake me, and then hole-punch out part of my chest!
Get the leeches and cast out the demons.
It hurt like leeches and demons, that's for damn sure. Too bad I wore liquid eyeliner this morning, because not only will I have to go to work with a what looks like an epinephrine injection to the chest gone horribly wrong, but eye makeup like I crawled out from behind a dumpster after being sexually assaulted from all of the tearing up.
Even better, I have to wear a giant fucking bandage for 3 weeks just to make sure germs don't get down in that cavernous gouge, and make me septic or something. Perhaps in a day or two I'll feel better about the removal of the maybe cancerous, maybe Bostonian second head.