Tuesday, August 24, 2004
Don't Go Grocery Shopping at 5:00pm After Only Having Eaten a Cup of Honey Nut Cheerios that Morning
or
Go Shopping When You're Hungry
Which do you think is better wisdom?
or
Go Shopping When You're Hungry
Which do you think is better wisdom?
And now, my warted finger...
I warned you (uh, well below at least) that the combination of scanner and .jpg hosting could be lethal, because they have teamed up to sponsor the above image of my left index fingers. It is important to document the cruel, knotted virus known as a wart before it disappears (hopefully) forever -- the dermatologist warned it doesn't always.
I've had a few different warts for about eight years, always small but always growing. They started when I played JV-B basketball in the winter of 1994-1995. My hands became severly dry and chapped, and I suffered numerous tiny cuts and cracks on the tips of my fingers. I suspect this allowed the virus to root. Picking didn't help. (I now suspect you're probably either uncomfortable or disgusted with the level of personal body history I'm now reaching, so I'll conclude quickly). After years of meaning to, with Amanda's encouragement, I made the arrangements (referral from my doctor for insurance purposes, heh heh heh) and spent no more than fifteen minutes in the office. The doctor applied liquid nitrogen with a glorified Q-Tip to three sites, it stung coldly, and c'est tout. They should fall off dead in a few weeks, he said, but there was a fair amount of triumph and glee at the thought of unholy, frozen, nitrous terror striking the exogenous invaders. For a second, my conscious funded a vision, however, of a sweet existence for the community of wart-viruses that had found a good life in my skin for these few years. I picture a prosperous middle-class generation of cells, now crushed by an act of science.
I warned you (uh, well below at least) that the combination of scanner and .jpg hosting could be lethal, because they have teamed up to sponsor the above image of my left index fingers. It is important to document the cruel, knotted virus known as a wart before it disappears (hopefully) forever -- the dermatologist warned it doesn't always.
I've had a few different warts for about eight years, always small but always growing. They started when I played JV-B basketball in the winter of 1994-1995. My hands became severly dry and chapped, and I suffered numerous tiny cuts and cracks on the tips of my fingers. I suspect this allowed the virus to root. Picking didn't help. (I now suspect you're probably either uncomfortable or disgusted with the level of personal body history I'm now reaching, so I'll conclude quickly). After years of meaning to, with Amanda's encouragement, I made the arrangements (referral from my doctor for insurance purposes, heh heh heh) and spent no more than fifteen minutes in the office. The doctor applied liquid nitrogen with a glorified Q-Tip to three sites, it stung coldly, and c'est tout. They should fall off dead in a few weeks, he said, but there was a fair amount of triumph and glee at the thought of unholy, frozen, nitrous terror striking the exogenous invaders. For a second, my conscious funded a vision, however, of a sweet existence for the community of wart-viruses that had found a good life in my skin for these few years. I picture a prosperous middle-class generation of cells, now crushed by an act of science.
