TURN OVER HONEY, YOUR WOUND IS SMELLING

Over the past few years I’ve had what–until recently–I thought was a cyst burrowing its way toward my brain just above my right eye. It was mostly in the right eye lid, as opposed to in my eye. This little bastard–we nicknamed the manatee–really got me good. Painfully so, it would taunt me on a daily basis getting bigger and bigger and bigger…why was it there? I’ve got no clue, how did it get there? I found out the other day.

I honestly feel that my body set itself to work as some deranged oyster would, to produce this THING, only later to have it removed from my system. And really was it worth all that much? Was it a pearl of wisdom, or something of value? No, it was some frayed and ratty piece of crap that was growing out of the roots of my eyebrow hair. Ewww is right.

What the hell is that?

I certainly don’t know.

The human body tends to do odd things when pushed, or more often than not, when it feels like it. We’re all relatively fragile creatures with a mystical nature to our complex make up. Why things actually happen in our body, we only vaguely understand…sure modern medicine may seem up to snuff, but do we really know what the cells are doing and saying to each other? What form or arcane esperanto do they speak? Is it the blood music that I hear? Or is it just my heart beating in my ear, assuring me that I’m still alive inspite of my hopes, and aspirations?

I don’t know. I’m confused, annoyed, pissed off, and now I’m marred by the surgeon’s scalpel. His tool of excision. The sharp blade and skilled hand that removed this thing from my head is clearly also that which is used to enlarge women’s breasts. Thank god I don’t have a nipple sticking out of my eyelid. That wouldn’t do me any good at all.

As people found out about the surgery I became increasingly more light with my tale. Oh yes, I’m having my eye replaced with a bionic one so that I might see through women’s clothing. Wouldn’t that be ripe if it were true. Something I’m sure the hoards lonely php geeks who’re still crying over the fact that COMDEX has been shut down, would want to get in on. Alas, poor yorick. Woe is you, for the truth be not had in this idea. Not yet anyway.

The surgery was fun and entertaining. I had been frozen, or so I’d thought. The surgeon numbed half my face and part of my neck by injecting me nearly half a dozen times directly into my orbit. One would assume the shear volume of novocaine running through me would be enough to cool even the most heated debate, but then you would be wrong, and I’d probably call you an asshole like I called him every time I felt him cutting through the fatty tissue beneath my eyebrow.

*Oh yes*, I intend to be graphic. This is not for the feint of heart, feeble of mind, nor dull of wit.

If you ever have the misfortune of not being able to perform the surgery yourself, then you’d expect the surgeon be he plastic, rubber, or otherwise, to use pre and operative words such as: routine, standard, no problem, likely, and positive. The last thing you want the surgeon to do in the middle of the operation is to say things like: Hmmm(n)…, what?, Pass me a…no the whatchamacallit, what’s that?, and that can’t be good. It’s a great confidence builder.

Needless to say my “routine” 20 minute surgical procedure was extended to a 1 hour butchery session. Butch butch butch. With a tiny sharp knife, no less. Each slice, and each dice, I felt. When I raised my leg he asked “Do you feel that?” I responded with “Asshole,” and he shot me up full of novocaine again. It felt very good, and once again he was free to hack his way through my face. Leaving me in lala land for a while.

Finally it was out. He plopped it into a dish and told me that he’d never seen anything quite like that in his life. That made me feel good–always an encouraging remark. Always indeed.

But thankfully I’m now home in the comfort of my office / bed / life, away from the hospital. Quite pleased that I didn’t have to die there–and trust me you don’t want to die in th hospital, but that’s clearly a tale for another time–and quite happy I got to go home.

We’ll see what the mutant piece of me was…what deranged possibility it could have been, and why it felt the need to befriend my eye. We’ll see…

[PAIN]

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