"I have work. Then a dinner thing, and then I am busy trying to become who I am." - Hannah, Girls

Tuesday, June 28, 2016

At Least a Cigarette Burn has Intrigue

Sophomore year my suite and I decided that we would "say yes to shit." Do you want to ask an almost stranger to a date party? Yes, go for it. Should we change out of our pajamas at 1am when we're invited to a party? Of course we should. These were the times that this motto came in handy. But we didn't say it that often. To be honest we mostly just screamed it at each other when we were trying to convince someone to go to happy hour with us.

I think the idea of "saying yes to shit" was derived from the notion of "doing it for the story." If you turn down opportunities, then nothing out of the ordinary will ever happen. Our weekend nights would continue to be the same. We would attend different parties with the same dates. We would wake up on Sunday morning and retell the same Friday and Saturday night over and over again.

I currently have six warts: one on my knee, one on my thigh, a new one below the developed one on my thigh, one healing on my elbow, one next to my achilles tendon, and another healing on my big tow I am nineteen, not nine. And yet, I keep getting warts.

The first wart I remember having was on the instep of my foot. I used to sit downstairs in the den watching TV, picking it until it bled. That was over a decade ago. And then for some reason during my freshman year I got a giant (seriously it was so huge) wart on my left knee. It's gone, but it left a scar, and has obviously left behind more than a few friends on my skin.

I keep trying to freeze them off, but it takes weeks for them to leave. I don't mind having warts honestly. They can be annoying, but I've always been a fan of picking, plucking, popping, squeezing, and freezing. Unlike most, I can find the silver lining it having a wart, and that is the satisfaction of getting rid of the wart.

I don't care if people know that I have warts. I care more about people assuming these spots are something else. The treated wart on my thigh resembles a cigarette burn.

Sometimes you can just read the look on someone's face and know exactly what they're thinking. I knew Liz thought someone/I had burned me with a cigarette. She didn't say that's what she thought until we were both drunk of course.

When I told her that no, it was a wart. She immediately showed me her warts. One one hand, I was happy to bond over the strangeness of our bodily functions, but also sad that I had no story to share.

I have warts. A lot of them. I don't know how I got them. They just appear. The end.

I don't wish I had a drunk someone accidentally burn me in a bar. I don't wish that I was so sad or curious that I decided to burn myself. I'm glad the spot on my leg is my body doing its thing. It's better than having something else intervene.

A part of me is still slightly embarrassed to share the truth: I have warts. I have more warts than the average eight year old. I have warts that came to me unannounced. I am a college girl with warts. (Not a college girl with genital warts, because those most definitely have a story behind them.)

1 comment:

  1. Hah - the last sentence made me almost spit my coffee out. I used to know somebody that had them. She wasn't happy about it either :)