Cease and De Cyst

Just returned from the Doctor's office. I have what's known as a polinoidal cyst. It's really disgusting. One of the short, kinky hairs growing on that no-man's-land between the small of my back and my buttcrack decided to rebel, angering the older hair establishment by growing inwards rather than out. That'll show those other conformist hairs! Fight the power!

And, like the AIDS epidemic that stemmed from our parent's generations hedonistic sexual rebellion, my back hair's refusal to follow the status quo has resulted in a hard, angry little red dot of skin that's sore and painful. Granted, it's not sarcoma painful, but it's painful all the same. Basically, it feels like someone's attempted to throw a dart up my ass and missed by a few inches.

I'd describe my wound in more accurate, gruesome detail if I could. But I can't see back there. You ever tried to look at the area on your body between your tailbone and buttcrack? I could've sprouted a third arm back there and not noticed.

I've been thinking about what it would be like to live 200 years ago. Before they understood things like polinoidal cysts, and thought that, when there's a spot on your backside causing you pain, it's the work of demons or witches or bad humours or elves or some stupid mythological crap like that. You'd just walk around hunched over, in pain, for days until someone figured out the problem and punctured the sore spot with a pointed stick or something. (This is still the preferred treatment by some HMO's).

Or even worse, you wouldn't figure out the problem, and the infection would spread, and eventually you'd die, all because some stupid hair grew in the wrong direction.

So, thanks to modern medicine, I have to take a bunch of antibiotics and anti-inflammatory medication and hope that it goes away before I need to go to work. Or leave the house for any reason. Or, you know, move. Fortunately, I've rented some movies to keep my mind, you know, limber.