After splitting five hours of this day between an operating table and a waiting room I walked out of the California Skin Institute around 2:00pm having left behind the following:

  • far too many embarrassing and ill-timed tears
  • a bunch of my face flesh
  • cancer

I've been super-pouting from the couch since the moment I got home, taking breaks only to consume frozen pizza, Gilmore Girls and Vicodin. B's been popping in periodically with treats in an attempt to make amends for calling me Phantom of the Opera earlier which, admittedly, was not unfunny, but also, like, too soon, bro. Oh, and the surgeon informed me that I can't drink alcohol or exercise until after Thanksgiving because of the stitches and my thin blood.

So that's swell.

On the bright side, I just took another Vicodin (the label said I could) so thirty minutes from now I probably won't even know where my now-disfigured face is.