Well, of course it went exactly as expected—which is to say, with a faint whiff of bureaucratic dread and antiseptic doom hanging in the air like a bad omen you can’t quite shake.
I arrived at the dermatology outpost ahead of schedule—early, because the Marine Corps burned that particular paranoia into my bones: if you’re not early, you’re already dead or wrong, but definitely late.. No middle ground. No mercy. So there I was, planted in the waiting room like a suspicious package, marinating in fluorescent lighting and regret.
Thirty minutes passed. Or maybe it was thirty years. Time behaves strangely in those places—stretches, warps, crawls into your skull and sets up camp. I sat surrounded by a small convention of ancient war survivors and sunburnt philosophers—old geezers with skin like leather saddlebags and eyes that had clearly seen things the rest of us were lucky enough to avoid. A gallery of cautionary tales.
Finally, my name was called—dragged out of the void by a voice that had long since given up caring.
I surged forward like a man being summoned for judgment.
A short march followed: two right turns, one left—standard maze tactics, probably designed to disorient the patient and soften resistance. I was delivered to Room 8, which had all the charm of an interrogation chamber disguised as a medical facility.
Instructions were issued with clinical indifference: strip down to skivvies, don the ceremonial gown—the kind that leaves your backside flapping in the breeze like a surrender flag. A fine tradition. Keeps you humble. Keeps you compliant.
Then came the waiting. Again.
The first practitioner entered, gave me a once-over like I was a used vehicle with questionable mileage. And the gown? Useless. First order: ditch it. So there I stood—half-naked under the cold tyranny of overhead lights—while this stranger inspected my mortal coil.
She left. Of course she did. Had to fetch the real authority.
Moments later, that doctor arrived—trailing a med student like a junior reporter on assignment to witness the slow unraveling of a civilian. Now we’re up to three sets of eyes. A full panel. Apparently my skin required a committee review. After all, I am good looking.
They poked, prodded, examined. Whispered things in low tones like they were discussing crop yields or minor weather patterns.
Good news, they said: most of the dark spots are “normal.” Wisdom spots. That’s what they called them. Which is rich, considering the ongoing evidence that wisdom has yet to make a meaningful appearance in my decision-making process.
Still, I nodded like a man accepting praise he didn’t earn.
Then came the verdict: “You’re looking good… but we want to see you every 120 days.” Translation—you belong to us now.
And just to seal the deal—let’s freeze that little spot on the bridge of your nose.
Right there. Center mass. The bullseye of the human face.
No ceremony. No countdown. Just cold, clinical violence—zap—like a tiny arctic ambush. I could practically hear the skin surrender.
And just like that, it was done. Branded. Marked. Initiated into the dermatological herd.
Stamped and processed.
Another citizen processed through the great machine of preventative maintenance.
So I walked out into the daylight, nose tingling, dignity slightly dented, carrying the faint realization that the system has its hooks in me now.
And I suppose… there’s only one thing left to do.
Lean into it.
Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler
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