Like the Back of My Hand
Whilst reading my dear friend caropal’s latest entry today, I was reminded of a day a couple of months ago upon which I wore a rather low-cut shirt to work and was very surprised to look down at one point and notice an unfamiliar mole on my chest. I spent the rest of the afternoon wondering how one could go her whole life with a dark black spot featured prominently on her front and never pay it any mind, and I became very concerned that I was missing other important features of my body. Like, say, an extra ear or mysteriously braided armhair.
I went home that night and stood in front of my mirror, just looking at the thing in unamused awe. Angry at it for confusing me, I took my fingernail and scraped at it, thinking it might be a weird scab of some kind. It came right off and left absolutely no mark behind, which confused me even more for a second before I remembered that I’d had some dark chocolate after lunch that day. I realized that a hunk of it must have melted and dripped onto my boob, where it lounged all day while my co-workers walked past it thinking, Wow, what slob.
So to enact revenge on it, I popped it in my mouth. Dee-lish.
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