Almost two weeks ago after my doctor told me that I would need to take a week’s worth of antibiotics before she would cyst my lance I came home and slapped a bandaid over it hoping to shield it from the excruciating pain of the friction generated from it rubbing up against the back of my pants. Within two hours it had erupted. I spent a furious 10 minutes in the bathroom trying to squeeze out as much goo as possible while Leta searched the living room floor for large, square objects to shove up her nose.
I have a bit of a secret fascination vith za skveezing ov zee goo. (Vy am I zripping vis goo?) I love to pop pimples or boils or blisters especially when they reside on a body other than my own. It’s the monkey in me, or maybe the sadist, but I love to see oozing goo almost as I much as I loved the whole process of making a baby. And if you’ve never tried to make a baby it’s really something you should try before you die and realize that your virginity didn’t make you any better than a charitable whore.
I experience the same surging sensation of glee when I vacuum up noisy particles, particles that clink and clank around the container of the vacuum and indicate that VICTORY HAS BEEN ACHIEVED YOU MOTHERFUCKING PIECE OF DIRT. Then I grab the vacuum by its handle and thrust it over my head and run up the stairs of the Capitol building downtown, all after a montage of scenes where you see me practicing with the vacuum cleaner and skipping rope really fast while the neighbors all hang out their windows and wave. And then I win an Oscar. These are the fantasies of a housewife.
The evening that the cyst exploded I asked Jon if he would like to take a look at the damage. Not surprisingly it was like I had just asked Chuck, “Chuck, wanna treat?” and before I know it he’s sliding across the hardwood kitchen floors so fast he ends up head first into the wall. Jon had on his headlamp within 10 seconds and was coming at me fast with cotton balls and a look of mad scientist/teenage boy who just got a Playboy subscription for Christmas in his eyes.
I was just as interested in the dissection of the primitive life form in the back of my knee, so I contorted my body in wholly impossible ways to see what was happening as he squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. I will spare you the details of the consistency and make-up and amount of foreign substance that leaked out of my knee, but what I won’t keep my lips shut about is the part where the pressure was so intense that it suddenly popped and hit Jon in the eye. It happened so fast that it looked like someone was living in the back of my knee and was so upset about the invasion that he took out a rifle and shot Jon’s eye out.
Of course, I was contorted and admittedly a little blissed out on bourbon because MY WEB DESIGNER HUSBAND WAS GOING TO BE PERFORMING OPEN WOUND SURGERY ON A BODY PART THAT WAS STILL ATTACHED TO MY BODY. So I did what any drugged patient would do and started laughing uncontrollably. Laughing and snorting, to be totally honest. Snorting into the pillow to muffle the tremendous guffaws that were lurching from my mouth. Except, if you really think about it, it’s not funny if your eye is the eye being attacked by goo FROM SOMEONE ELSE’S INFECTED SORE. Yes, we may use the bathroom with the door open and share a bed and talk about poop, but the line has to be drawn somewhere AND THAT LINE IS GOO BEING SHOT FROM ONE PERSON’S KNEE INTO THE OTHER PERSON’S EYE.
I’d say that line is fair.
Two days later while trying to squeeze more goo out of the sore he moved his head out of the way fast enough that the goo hit the wall. Four feet away. And then when I had the lance professionally cysted the goo shot so high into the air that it hit the assisting nurse on the upper arm and she reflexively screamed, “Mt. Vesuvius!” Like it was a hand job gone HORRIBLY wrong and she had to point out just HOW wrong.
Now I am stitched up and hoping that I don’t develop gangrene and that Jon doesn’t lose his right eye.
(Yes, I have pictures of the goo. No, I won’t show you.)