My biopsies look like cigarette burns. One on my arm. One on each leg. Two on my back. They’re ugly and scabbing. And they hurt.
The good news is, three of them are fine. Which means, I have ugly spots on me for no reason.
I haven’t heard back about the other two yet.
It seems I’ve been collecting scars lately. Like, it’s my new “thing.” Remember when I pretended the sidewalk was a slip-n-slide the day after my half marathon last October? Because of that graceful moment, my knees are forever altered. Last April, I had to remove a pre-cancerous mole from the back of my shoulder, which left this 3-inch long, discolored scar. And now these new ones. I sort of hate them.
I want to pretend that I love them because they give me character. They’re battle wounds. They are part of my “story.” Blah Blah.
They’re one big fucking cliché.