Moles! If you have traded an email with me or spoke with me in person over the past week, I probably mentioned my traumatic mole removal. Naturally, in my big wussy baby world, you can translate "traumatic" to mean "perfectly routine and not all that painful".
Curse you mom! It's my moms fault of course. She has moles. My father doesn't. My brother takes after my father more and he is fairly mole free. As all of you obviously know from my mole-y exterior and child bearing hips, I take after my mother.
Curse you granddad! Actually, it is granddad that I have to blame. Not to gross you out, but he was famously known for once removing a mole on his own. My mother told me the story recently and I almost threw up into the phone. And believe me, it would of been a comically exaggerated vomiting into the phone which would then spew out onto my mom 600 miles away.
He used the "fingernail" method - contrasted with my doctor's method of numbing things and sterile instruments (and a pretty assistant).
Mole Overlords I didn't really mind the moles. They were original equipment and I had gotten used to them all. The ones near my watch. On my elbow. On my legs. We lived together in a symbiotic kind of way - much like the robots and the babies in the Matrix TV show.
Acting Out Things were fine right up until 2007 when suddenly the moles started mouthing off and changing color and trying to control my mind and making me push people off curbs. They were acting out. I of course am talking about splotchy and two-color roundy. Oddly, both on my left limbs (read into that what you want).
Splotchy wasn't that bad. He was just big and was fairly quiet since he hid behind my knee. I'll admit that I didn't know splotchy existed until the doctor pointed him out. So quiet and unassuming he was.
Two-color roundy was the one that attracted the attention of my mom and my doctor and small animals (who thought it was a snack I had left on my arm for them). He was colorful and bossy and took no gruff from me or the other moles. He acted like he owned my arm.
They are gone Now they are gone. My dermatologist was super friendly and his name was an anagram for "A Mole" which I thought was ironic/clever. During the short little procedure he kept making sure I was ok since I am such a baby and apparently looked like I was about to pass out. "This is going pinch for a second? Do you feel that? How are you doing?"
They take the little moles and send them off for tests, and then he reassured me that they would be rehabilitated and placed in caring homes.
All quiet The others have been really quiet now that splotchy and two-color roundy are gone. I guess I put a little of the fear-of-god into them.