I went in for a mole-patrol last Monday, and while the dermatologist was busy torturing me by snipping off the skin tags around my shoulders with a pair of scissors and wholly inadequate amounts of Lidocaine, he spotted a mole he didn’t like. So out came the razor blade, and he sent off a chunk of it for a biopsy.
Then this morning I get a call, telling me that the mole is, well, some long-ass series of words that I couldn’t hope to reproduce here with any degree of accuracy. “Something that could become something” seemed to be the gist. And they want to cut out the rest of it before that happens.
So I’m off to the doc tomorrow morning for forty-five minutes of sheer, unadulterated fun with a scapel. Yay me!