The biopsy came back today confirming that it was indeed metastatic melanoma #7 but Dr. Sequamous said it was in it’s early stages and he seemed confident that his magic ninja knife got it all.
So this makes 3 from my right arm, 3 from my left, and a big juicy one from my neck. Oh, and I have names for them all:
#1 - The Mark That Makes the Unknown Mother Cry (right arm)
#2 - The Fish Found Beneath The Sand (right arm)
#3 - The Howl Of A Tree Gnawed With The Teeth Of A Clown Doll (left arm)
#4 - The Food That Burns The Dripping Sky (left arm)
#5 - I Have Captured That Which Is Holy In A Stained Plastic Bag (neck)
#6 - Make A Path Where There Is Smiling Passion (right arm)
#7 - Mitt Newtny (left arm)
When I catch people staring at the scars, or if they ask, I tell them they are lion bites and then, usually, fanciful stories ensue. The scars actually look like healed bullet wounds - I need to leverage that, though I’ve yet to figure out how.
Marta’s supposed boyfriend, Buddy, or as I call him, “Buddy”, the VCU creative writing teacher - who’s a d-i-c-k!!, called her at zero hour before their big Valentine’s date last night to tell her that he had a last minute mandatory faculty meeting and wouldn’t be able to make it. And oh, he was so sorry - that he’d been looking forward to this for months - that he’d make it up to her - kootchie kootchie - blah blah blah.
Now, I know he’s got this katy perry grad assistant on the side that I’ve seen him with at the the Starbuck’s at Stuart and Robinson - but she doesn’t know - but I’m thinking that’s what he’s really got going on that’s mandatory.
After huffing and puffing and crying for about a half hour, Marta tells me me to “gets off my lazy ask” - that she wants to buy me dinner - like I don’t know what’s really going on.
Can’t say the company was that great, but as far as African bushman standards go, the food was pretty damn good. I was even able to slip in a third martini while she was gazing blankly off into the distance.
blah blah blah blah blah
Before I got out of bed this morning I saw myself get up, walk across the room, and put my pants on and then I got up, walked across the room, and put my pants on.
I’ve always wondered about the doctors that you end up dealing with at your typical doc-in-the-box like Patient First. Don’t get me wrong - I can’t really complain about the care I’ve received but I often wonder at the personality type that is attracted to that kind of employment situation. Is it the type that wants to relieve human suffering but only 9 to 5 and with a 401k - “I can deal with hemorrhoids but not life or death”?
Once, I went to a doc-in-the-box and saw this one doctor for a sinus infection or something like that and then later that same day stood in line behind him at the Safeway - he was buying a 12-pack of Milwaukee’s Best - LIGHT!!!
Would you be comfortable putting your life in the hands of a man whose preferred beverage is Milwaukee’s Best Light?
In spite of all that, I prefer the proletarian feel of “Doc-In-The-Box” medical care. It’s the European model pimped out in capitalist clothes. Barring catastrophic, end-of-the-world scenarios, it’s the future whether you like it or not. It’s inevitable - manifest fucking destiny - just like that situation in Syria. I mean, jesus, what history book has that Bashar al-Assad guy been reading where he doesn’t end up swinging from a rope by a charred, footless leg and with a hundred thousand sticks beating the pulpy mass that is his body like a piñata - brains and bone falling to the ground like so much penny-candy.
“Bashar, I’d like you to meet Benito. Y’all should talk.”
He studied to be a medical doctor when he was younger - did you know that? But I’m thinking it was at one of those schools where they drank too much Dom Perignon and not enough Milwaukee’s best.
This spot on on my arm is looking all too familiar. Heading to doctor first thing tomorrow. Melanoma #7?