Papilloma

On the underside of my left arm, right up next to the pit, dangles… err, dangled a petite flap of skin, a skin tag if you will. It was small and unnoticeable, unless you were willing to get your nose lethally close to my stanky armpit. The tag never bothered anybody; it just flapped around in the breeze minding its own business.

Last night, in a tag-icidal state of mind, I snipped that little sucker off with scissors. You know those mini-scissors shaped like a stork with a curved beak? That was the murder weapon. I jumped slightly as I felt the pinch of the blades but, all in all, it hurt less than plucking eyebrows. I was surprised by the lack of bleeding.

My original skin tag, Tag1, developed right after adolescents, somewhere at about the age of 18. I cut that one off in a very similar ritual about five years ago. It slowly grew back to its original bb size over a four-year span, and for the last year Tag2 has been leasing space under my arm. Guess what? Lease terminated, muthah-fuckah. You’ve been evicted.

Tag2 was rinsed down the bathroom sink drain last night. Now, somewhere in the rancid maze of sewer pipes under this city, Tag2 weeps unheard tears of rejection. Eventually, the overwhelming feeling of rejection will be cultivated and harvested as rampant resentment and hate. Tag2 will stew in the fecal sludge, drawing strength and nutrients from E. coli and other coliform bacterium. Rumor of his hatred for Shenry will reach kindred ears and Tag2 will be visited by his progenitor, Tag1. Basing their relationship upon their shared loathing of Shenry the Severer, the two tags will date for a year, get engaged, marry, and begin breeding hundreds upon hundreds of tiny skin tag spawn.

In 2008, I will die in my sleep as a fleshy sea of self-aware skin tags washes over me and smothers me. The assault will be timed so that the new skin tag under my arm has fully matured but has yet to be amputated. In a symbolic moment, Tag107 through Tag 1141 will pick up the stork-shaped scissors and liberate their brethren Tag3 from my dead armpit. Finding that my body is too big to rinse down the bathroom sink, the amorphous blob of a billion skin tags will buoyantly maneuver my body to the kitchen sink where they will activate the garbage disposal and force my corpse down the drain.

Poetic justice, yo.
...and so it was written, shenry at 4/15/2003 09:12:00 PM.
...and so it was appended with .