I have this thing on my face that wasn’t there in October. Yes, I tried washing it off, thank you very much. I also tried putting lotion on it and covering it with spackle. I even tried antibiotic ointment in case it was some kind of flesh eating thing, because you know that a little Neosporin can totally take on Ebola virus. Just as I was about to scrape it off with a loofa, something occurred to me: there’s a good chance a doctor might need to look at it and if I scrub it off with a square of cosmetic-grade sandpaper, the doctor won’t get to see it. So the festering thing and I went to see a doctor.
Hmmmm-ing noises were involved. Bright lights were shined on it. The doctor even called for back-up, asking other people to come look at it, including one person whom I’m pretty sure was just a really nosy copier repairman. In retrospect, it went something like this:
DR: Well, Lorca, that certainly is very interesting.
ME: Oh that’s good. At least it’s not, like, fatally ugly. It’s just at DefCon Interesting. So do I put some kind of cream on it or something?
DR: We can’t do anything with it until we know what it is (this doctor is a member of the royal family, apparently, because he calls himself “we.”). For now, I think we’re possibly looking at either skin cancer or fungus.
ME: Oh, that’s good. Then fungus it is.
ME: You said I could have cancer or fungus, so I vote fungus.
DR: Um, you don’t get to pick.
ME: But you just said I could have either cancer, or I could have fungus. You clearly just gave me a choice.
DR: No, I meant, it could be cancer or it could be fungus.
ME: There you go again! That’s what I just said. So let’s make it be fungus.
DR: We don’t get to choose. That thing on your face has already decided what it is.
ME: How? It’s only about four months old! I hadn’t even decided I could eat solid foods when I was this thing’s age. There’s still time to shape it into the thing we want it to be when it grows up. It’s still impressionable at this age.
DR: I don’t think you’re understanding me. I don’t know what that is.
ME: I don’t either, but I’m going to make it be a fungus.
Now I have to take these pills that have nothing to do with my face but are more likely to stop me from acting weird when I go back for the medical scraping that will help the doctor ask this thing if it wants to be cancer or a fungus when it grows up. And while I still maintain that he was quite obviously giving me options, he may not have actually been meaning to do that. If I did have a choice it would totally be a fungus because I know what to do about that. Luckily, these pills won’t let me think much about anything until I go back to see him for the fungusectomy. Since it’s a fungus and all.
UPDATE: Because I’m completely a giver and all, I’m going to let YOU vote on whether it’s a cancer or a fungus. That will serve two purposes. One, I can show the doctor that all these people think it’s a fungus and therefore he’ll have to treat it like one, and two, I can find out which of you are douche canoes who want me to have cancer. Take a look at this photo: