Went in to have an aggravated mole looked at, but the doctor found several pre-cancer spots along with the mole.
He took a canister, with a pipe attached, and froze all the spots to death, making my face look like a vicious-cat-fight-arena, providing me with a high low-self-esteem.
At this moment, I sit in a barber shop, because it’s hot outside, while the Husband gets a haircut before we make the long return home, and I pretend like nothing’s wrong with me—head down, writing this piece of prose, which keeps me from staring into space, imagining that my life is over, which is not a healthy thing to do, because pre-cancers are not cancer, and millions of folks have them burned off all the time.
Maybe people won’t really notice me right now; instead, just be aware of my presence, my essence, and not take in my details.
This is one time I won’t mind.