Last Thursday, a doctor examined the results of my bloodwork. As expected, my high White Blood Cell count was just the harbinger of the cold that took me down two weeks ago. While I don’t have an explanation for all the weirdness going on in my body (e.g. clogged meibomian glands, Raynaud Syndrome, and general fragility), being told I don’t have an auto-immune disorder was good news.

“Of course, it’s good news!” the doctor responded.

I don’t think he was a fan of my apparent ambivalence.

Following this good news, he had me lie on the examination table to slice me up. I mean, this was a part of the appointment–I was also there to get a benign growth removed from under my left knee; however, I rode my bike to this appointment thinking the removal would be the equivalent of popping a zit. I wasn’t anticipating a 1″ incision requiring three stitches. Fortunately, the doctor froze the area, so I didn’t feel a thing during my 25-minute ride home.

Upon arrival, I realized the blood from the sutured incision soaked through the bandages AND my pants. The appointment was at 10am, and around 8pm, I rolled up my pajama pants, put my left foot on the coffee table and prodded around the incision. The roomie witnessed my idiocy and lectured me: “Don’t touch it!”

“BUT I STILL DON’T FEEL A THING. IT’S WEIRD.”