Don't You Want Me Baby?

I joke a lot of times about what my Match.com profile should be and that I need a man to walk the dog in the cold or that I'm about to go stalk a Hot Person or whatever. Today, however, is no joke. I need a man (or a woman, I think chicks are hot) pronto!

It's not as dirty as you think.

As a matter of fact it's sort of stupid and a little gross.

I went back to the dermatologist this morning. My plan was to get a full body check per the recommendation after my original diagnosis and to have her biopsy the weird spot on my lip. I should know better than to make plans at this point should I not?

She didn't biopsy the lip, I have a cream. It is a magic cream. I don't entirely understand what it's going to do but I have to put it on the lip thing three times a week and it will make the lip thing red and scaly and...this is where things get fuzzy, it will define the cancer if it's cancer, it will shrink the cancer if it's cancer and I do not know what else. Should I be afraid that the cream is smarter than me?

I also have a foam. The foam is not for my lip. It's for my scalp. My scalp has been fucked up since I was like 12. I've used a number of things on it and can usually keep it at bay but it's still all fucked up. Realizing my dream of shaving my head would be a bad thing. Anyway, she thinks it might be a mild form of psoriasis so I have a foam now.

Notice how I haven't mentioned the full body check yet?

There are indignities to this sort of thing. Paper gowns rip, by the way. Someone snaps your underwear back into place after perusing your butt cheeks and it's not in a deliciously nasty way. I had grand plans to tell her about a certain mole, one I've had forever that I'm sure is fine, but after the other indignities I could not picture myself offering up the nearly gynecological one for viewing. Perhaps when we've known each other longer. She found not one, not two but three moles (Three moles, ha ha ha! Huh maybe I should call the Count) that she felt I would be wise to shave and biopsy. They're all on my back. Figuring out how to label the sample containers was the hardest part. ("You have a lot of moles, I want to be as specific as possible." Thank you. I already felt so sexy in my dress made from your last term paper, too. Have I told you that a guy I slept with said that once? Not the specific part just the mole quantifying part, along the lines of, "I didn't think you'd have so many moles." Yes, I pick winners. Every. Time.) So I got shot up with lidocaine and she shaved my back really NON-40 Year Old Virgin style and she put some band aids on and sent me on my way. Here's what she said, though, "These will heal up really nicely. All you have to do is put some vaseline and a band aid on them once a day, keep them covered, don't expose them to any air at all and they'll heal beautifully."

This part of the post should really have a picture. It would be a picture of where the dot band aids are on my back. Do you know the three parts of your back that you can sort of scratch if you really have to but basically you can't reach? That's where those moles were.

There is no way I'm going to be able to wrangle freaking band aids onto those suckers. The dog would help if she could, I know she would. She'd do anything if I'd make the nasty thunder go away and let her sit on my lap every minute of every day. The cats, eh, they'd make me a deal, I'm sure. It'd cost me but I could get half decent medical care if I was willing to pony up the venison. Without opposable thumbs, though, Mama is shit out of the proverbial luck. I need a man (or a woman!) who wants to love me and hold me and smear vaseline on my back and dot me with band aids.

Any takers?