I am growing less and less, by the day.
Last weekend, in between a quest to find the world's best jam (victorious, despite wily misdirection from the internet and two-faced cafes) and wandering about cemeteries, I had to go, of all the most horrendous things, shopping. For bras, no less, that most heinous of all heinous shopping chores. Because a year ago I stopped taking the pill, and consequently my anatomy has leaped at the chance to, er, jettison some weight.1
Last year, I visited a plastic surgeon who took my face, cut two triangles out of it, and left me looking like Zorro had dealt with me and my infamies for good.
Today, I visited a dermatologist who, for the bargain-basement price of $350, ogled me all over for scarification possibilities, jabbed me with a needle containing (admittedly boring) drugs, and stole a piece of my thigh.2
Day by day, in chunks and slices the size of pygmy shark bites, I am being whittled away.3
- I am not unhappy. It's ever so much easier to do simple things like, oh, run. Bend over. Jump. That sort of thing. [↩]
- The curse of pale skin: I leave the house, and catch cancer. Dammit. [↩]
- Luckily, I have discovered that eating with abandon can accumulate weight faster than life can carve it away from my frame, so I have no anxiety on that front. [↩]
4 thoughts on “the writing on the wall, that nobody was there at all”
You'll use any excuse to show us that hot scar pic again!!
Absolutely! Some folks like tattoos, or piercings; me, I like to coerce doctors into carving pieces out of me in my vain attempt to one day finally appear badass 😉
Man o man, you're being run through the mill. Do I need to take you out to dinner and a movie again? *tempts*
LOL – luckily, word came back from the doc today that the new mole was benign, which is all to the good.
Comments are closed.