Ripped Stitches and Silverfish

Pretty introductions aside, where the hell is Nolan? I mean, it's like he doesn't care about the thousands upon thousands of people that read our blog each and every day, like he doesn't value their support...oh, wait. We have no readers other than ourselves. Poo. Hold on, Nolan, I'm soon to join you in complete lack of interest in our blog.

Anywho. I have a considerable number of moles spread across my body. I don't mind them, I consider them to be tiny quirks that add interest to an otherwise uniteresting body, but almost everyone else, including my mother, my doctor, and my philosophy professor thinks they're tiny warning signs of cancer. Technically all those people are right, because I've had a few moles removed before, and the results came back as pre-cancerous. I really don't worry about it that much because I think the odds are strongly in favor of my moles procrastinating as much as I do, in which case they'll never get around to becoming fully cancerous, but instead will hover on that tiny little "pre" until they realize they will never accomplish anything and decide to give up on all productive endeavors and concentrate only on the number of movies they watch per day. How's that for long sentences? Eat your heart out, Virginia Woolf!

On a side note, I think I speak in stream of consciousness (ask your English teacher), which is the main reason why my friends have such trouble keeping up with what I'm talking about. Exacerbating things is the fact that if I'm not speaking or listening I'm usually continuing on the conversation in my head, and may, at any moment, continue it outloud without realizing that the listener (if any) has not been privy to the previous four minutes of conversation. It causes problems. I would work on it, but I'm too lazy.

To continue with the previous story, my mom took me to a dermatologist a little while ago for other skin problems (read: socially horrifying acne), but the doctor looked at a particularly large mole just below my neck and flipped her lid in the most professional sense. So a couple of days ago I let her do the sensible thing and remove the sucker, but now I'm in constant danger of ripping the stiches open. It wouldn't be that bad if I did, I could tell people I took a bullet for the Dalai Lama, but it might just be easier to not have the scar in the first place, so I've been going to considerable effort to completely immobilize my right arm, not an easy feat considering I'm right handed.

The real kicker is that in ten days I'm due to go back and have several more moles removed and undergo a full body check to find any other possibly dangerous characters loitering on my skin. When that happens I'll probably be unable to stretch any bit of skin on my body for fear of ripping stiches. I might steal a wheel chair, or even request a full body cast in order to invoke the most amount of pity possible. I imagine the conversation to go like this:

Concerned Friend: Kimber, you're covered in bandages and unable to move more than a little at a time, oh, whatever could be the matter?

Pitiful Kimber: Nothing, nothing, you don't want to hear about my suffering, tell me about the baby you just had.

CF: There's nothing to tell, just a pruney lump of poop-machine that crys. The real question is about you. Are you alright?

PK: I'm sure it's nothing, I just happen to be covered in a series of pre-cancerous, hyper-pigmented bits of skin.

CF: Pre-cancerous? You poor darling!

PK: And the local anesthetic is wearing off. Ow. Ow.

CF: There must be something I can do to help, I know, I'll make you breakfast.

PK: I don't like pancakes.

CF: Of course, I forgot your completely logical dislike of foods that are both fluffy and flat. How about I just sell my first born and buy you a 1966 Signal Flare Red Ford Mustang?

PK: It's still at the pooping stage, better wait and let it increase in value.

CF: Such calm thinking while in such pain. You are truely to be admired.

PK: How about you just do my homework for me?

CF: Nothing would please me more! Why don't I go to classes for you and take notes so you have more time to eat chocolate and watch movies?

PK: Whatever. Read the first four chapters and summerise for Philosophy, then write a five page essay on the impossibility of altruistic action.

CF: You're so cool.

PK: And don't bring your baby over when you drop off the work, that kid is ugly.

Ah, if only that were the world I inhabited. The one I really live in has a up-stairs neighbor with debris on her porch which is causing an infestation of silverfish. The trouble is she's taken to being home even when her car isn't there, so there's no safe time for me to sneak upstairs and hose off her porch without her surprising me and asking what I'm doing, in which case, due to my brutal honesty, I'll be forced to tell her that she's a crappy gardner, and due to her I'm stuck with a dead lawn, sucker trees growing up through the sidewalk, crap and garbage in the dog run, and enough dead plant material to fill approximately 12.7 large volume compost bins. That knowledge might drive her to some sort of self harm, so I'll just wait till she moves out, which should be sometime this week.

Here is a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio which my sister has saved on her computer for some reason under the file Pretty Celebrity People. Apparently she has a crush. Too bad the guy is in his thirties and still hasn't hit puberty.



That is all.