Until It Bleeds

Jeez. I hate being misled. Unfortunately, this time it was my own body that did it to me.

On the back of my neck a week or so ago I felt a bump. A big one. Damn zits...

But it wouldn't pop, budge, move, or generally create the grossness associated with such growths.

Me? I'm not so easily deterred. I was going to get that son of a bitch.

And I got it all right. I 'popped' a damn mole. Shit.

Enter the pain of trying to tear your own flesh off. Wait awhile for it to scab over. Continue picking at it.

Insert gross sounds, not unlike the grossness Ze tries to convey over the phone to a coworker, as you pick and pick and pick.

And pick and pick. Damn, scab's off, neck is hurting. Leave it alone, leave it alone...

This morning I was back at it, touching the back of my neck self-consciously, wondering if it really is a mole. My wife isn't sure because she's only seen it mangled.

So I mess with it a few minutes ago...

...lift and peel...

...cringe...

...and then I look at my fingers.

They're covered in blood. Damnit.

I rush to the bathroom and look in the mirror to see a lone, long droplet of blood go cascading down my neck and heading toward my chest.

Well, you really did it this time, I say to myself. Nothing like that hindsight (or Hindsight 2.0 for that matter).

I blot and blot with paper towels. I continue to bleed. As if the damn thing really wants me to understand this time. I'm a mole you idiot. Leave me alone and I'll leave you alone.

So I blot and blot and wash the blood off my neck. The thing is still bleeding, but much much less (thanks platelets!). I find a big, thick square band-aid and stick it on.

The hairs on the back of my neck are pulled every time I move my head.

Serves me right.

Eww.

Your trust
The most gorgeously stupid thing I ever cut in the world