Not itching like a dirty ho no mo'

I'm cancer free . . .

Hooray!

But I'm still not . . . erm . . . 'pre-cancer' free?

I don't exactly know what it means either. I have "pre-cancer".

Here's an idea: if there are people out there with the ability to tell what will some day be cancer. Why the fuck aren't they scanning the masses when they're babies?

Anyway. Pre-cancer schmancer. What I'M more upset about is having to deal with the Dream Team again.

Lets look back, okie?

I had two chunks of skin with suspected melanoma corkscrewed out of me and stitched up.

The Dream Team called me and said "Yeah. . . We need to corkscrew out more. But this time we're using a much bigger corkscrew. So . . . let's make you an appointment!"

I made an appointment.

For yesterday morning.

To have BIGGER chunks taken out.

Nurse: Good morning, Chad. It looks like we're going to be taking your stitches out today.

Me: Yep.

Nurse: And it looks like we need to schedule an excision.

Me: Actually, that's supposed to be today.

Nurse: No

Me: Yes

Nurse: No - it says here that you're scheduled to have stitches removed.

Me: Yeah. Stitches . . . and the hunk of meat they're sewn in to.

Nurse: Yeah, actually [Dr Awkward Touch] likes to do surgery later in the morning.

Me: Why does that matter? Is he eating it for lunch?

Nurse: That's funny.

Me: So I have to schedule ANOTHER appointment?

Nurse: Yeah. But the front desk (the Dream Team) will help you out with that!

Me: How about instead of sending me to the front desk staff you just blindfold me and start hitting me with a stick.

Nurse: Haha! Now lets get those stitches out!

Chad: (eyes rolling wildly) okay.

Nurse: Ooh! These have healed nicely!

Chad: Good.

Nurse: Yeah! The skin has even started to heal over the stitches! I'm going to have to dig them out!

This is when I revealed my secret weapon. (Yelling)

Chad: Wipe that stupid smile off your face! If you act cheerful about digging stitches out of me (without painkillers!) I'm going to leave. (And I'll be slashing all of your tires)

She shut up and went to work with what I think was a pair of cuticle scissors. The fact that she didn't appear to know how to handle them should've been apparent by the shape of her cuticles. She had the hands of a disabled welder.

Now - in pain - I was sent to the Dream Team to ONCE AGAIN schedule my excisions.

Instead of recounting my experience with them for you, just stick your head in the refrigerator and slam the door a couple of times. You'll get the idea . . .

Now I have a new appointment on Thursday. Which means that my stitches need to come out sometime when I'm in Prague.

Matt promised to take them out for me.

I better remind him to pack some scissors and an ice pick.