I went to the g*damn dermatologist today. I had a slightly raised, small scaly patch on my right forearm a year ago but over the last six months the damn thing is ignoring laundry and working my Sunday Times crossword. It needed to go.

I thought it would be a quick liquid nitrogen, freeze off-type scenario but then the doc left the room and a nurse (or some untrained person in scrubs) came in and scooted out a little metal rolling tray and proceeded to unseal sterile packages that included a shiny razor-fuck scapel thang, pointy-assed tweezers, a syringe and some sort of topical liquid in a glass jar that are always stolen from the mental wards in those type of horror films. Oh. And then there was some sort of cauterizing wand too; for a few moments I thought I was going to pass out as I am such a pussy when it comes to needles. That Kate Moss ‘heroin chic’ phase did not interest me.

So the doc comes back in and I sorta deflect the wart exit event by talking about Botox injections. Before I could move on to ‘lip plumper’ he was finished and I was sporting a surgical bandage. I may use that to my advantage in the workplace tomorrow while relaying a tale of repeated snakebite in my pantry.

But here’s another thing: he said he wasn’t going to send it out for a biopsy cuz I’d not met my deductible and it would be a small fortune and it was just a dumb wart anyway. But what if it’s not ‘just a dumb wart’ and I just hacked off a cancer bump now with an angry vendetta or something?

Which also sorta’ freaked my shit because one handles a clipboard to fill shit out and then you wait in the armchair where really fucked-up skin diseases rub and then you sorta handle another clipboard on the way out and all the while I’m thinking fingertip cootie cancer cells are jumping all through my personal space and it’s only days now till I wake up dead eaten by the cancer bugs. But probably not.