Okay, that's weird.
Last night? Beautiful virgin wrist. This morning? Mole. It's small. It's red. It's angry. It's new.
It's not staying. Soon I will trot off to the doctor's office and have it sliced off straight away because in my family, new angry red moles can mean a long, painful death, which I'm really not in the market for, thanks.
I had my first ticking time bomb removed from my back when I was in my early twenties, so this is old hat. Go in. Get it looked at. Get patted on head. Go in a week later, get cut on by professional. Go in five days after that, get stitch pulled. Show off bitchin' new scar. That is the way we roll. Some call it overkill (it's just a mole), but I'm not about to die because my wussified ancestors lived in bogs and feared the weak-assed, Northern European sun.
Wusses.
Well-meaning, concerned types like to remind me to wear sunscreen, long sleeves and a hat, and for God's sake, stop driving around in a convertible in New Mexico, but I don't pay much attention to that last bit. The day I trade in Bucky is the day I'm told one of these little buggers went malignant, and even then I'd go for the just-as-unpractical Mini Cooper S. With the sunroof.
Life on my terms! Life! On my terms!
Still, for now there's no need to worry. Right now, it's just a small, angry, red, itinerant mole. We can play worst case scenario later.
But, um, you might want to invest in a bottle of 70 S.P.F.
Last night? Beautiful virgin wrist. This morning? Mole. It's small. It's red. It's angry. It's new.
It's not staying. Soon I will trot off to the doctor's office and have it sliced off straight away because in my family, new angry red moles can mean a long, painful death, which I'm really not in the market for, thanks.
I had my first ticking time bomb removed from my back when I was in my early twenties, so this is old hat. Go in. Get it looked at. Get patted on head. Go in a week later, get cut on by professional. Go in five days after that, get stitch pulled. Show off bitchin' new scar. That is the way we roll. Some call it overkill (it's just a mole), but I'm not about to die because my wussified ancestors lived in bogs and feared the weak-assed, Northern European sun.
Wusses.
Well-meaning, concerned types like to remind me to wear sunscreen, long sleeves and a hat, and for God's sake, stop driving around in a convertible in New Mexico, but I don't pay much attention to that last bit. The day I trade in Bucky is the day I'm told one of these little buggers went malignant, and even then I'd go for the just-as-unpractical Mini Cooper S. With the sunroof.
Life on my terms! Life! On my terms!
Still, for now there's no need to worry. Right now, it's just a small, angry, red, itinerant mole. We can play worst case scenario later.
But, um, you might want to invest in a bottle of 70 S.P.F.
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