Yesterday I began my woefully disfiguring and painful journey into a wart removal. I made it 43.5 years before having one and somehow this unfortunate skin anomaly has darkened my door. How did I get it? I have constantly queried my brain for that very fact to no avail. Why would our good Lord bestow this tyrannical terror unto my first digit? When my doctor froze the ugly embarrassment of the enigma, he did not tell me anything of the mind numbing agony I would be put through. Just blistering and after two weeks it ‘should’ be gone, he said.
One of my absolutely favorite words–should. As in “You should be able to get to President Obama and ask him to check out your blog, Brent, but not to, like, kill him or anything.”
My illustrious wife Jen was the person who enlightened me of my future feverish fatigue. I told her my wart hurts. She said don’t worry, it’ll get worse. Thanks, I said. Hmmm, maybe I should have asked the Doc for some demerol or something of the like. Would go good with a beer, I am sure.
So, to let you in on my story, I have set up an epic of my excrescence, complete with pictures. It may or may not be worthwhile.
Another thing I just learned–Gwyneth can sing!!