Monday, April 17, 2006

just think about the term "auto-desiccator" for a minute. seriously.

I saw my dermatologist this morning, a blonde woman with a hungry, oblique smile and a distressing tendency to anthropomorphize my moles. I asked her to remove one (too much information? sorry); this ended up being a 60-second process involving an injection, some unspeakable slicing, and the use of a device which I swear she referred to as an "auto-desiccator." I am officially creeped out by the medical profession.

So, I gave my desk to Shosh last week (which is why the Idler ended up with the desk chair); I'd been using it primarily as a place to pile clothing ever since I got ye olde wirelesse internete. Moving one piece of furniture awakened some kind of primal organizing frenzy, and I spent all weekend travelling to and from Ikea, assembling Ikea furniture, and frantically winnowing my posessions — separating the worth-keeping from the Goodwill donations from the pure trash. I shouldn't be, but I am fucking amazed at how much detritus I've managed to accumulate over the course of what has, after all, been a relatively short life. Also at how heavy a dresser made out of balsa wood can be.

As the boyfriend points out (not that I wouldn't have figured it out for myself), this whole production was probably in large part just a math-avoidance strategy. I have to take a math placement test this week, and over the past two weeks I have done, oh, about 3/8 of the studying necessary. (Seriously, it took me a couple of false starts to come up with that fraction, and that just involved counting the pages of the study guide on my fingers. So, things are not looking good for algebra.) Have I mentioned to everyone out there how much I hate math? Math, you suck. Math, eat a bag of dicks. Actually, that's rude. It's not that I hate math; it's that math requires a mental commitment I'm absolutely unprepared to give to anything that doesn't in any way involve either (a) words or (b) the boys from Interpol taking off their pants (always excepting the one with the herpes, natch). In action, this feels a lot like boredom, but at root I think it's a very different thing. A question for the rest of you out there who also dislike the mathematics: is it the same for you? Or when you search the depths of your soul, do you just really hate being forced to pointlessly manipulate numbers that may or may not even exist in the real world?

I'm off now to do a little quick shopping and then probably not do math. Perhappies, through the magic of Shosh having given me her scanner, I will spend the evening posting photos of me as a child to my blog. Ha ha, I'm just kidding, there are no photos of me as a child.


At 9:55 PM PDT, Anonymous shosh said...

Oh, Ikea.

At 8:59 AM PDT, Blogger idler king said...

Otto Desiccator should make a cameo in your novel.

Did you get to keep the mole?

At 3:30 PM PDT, Blogger piehat said...

There is no way out of Ikea. Don't even try.

Sadly, I did not get to keep the mole. It took some effort, but I was also able to dissuade the doctor from sending it to a laboratory for Detached Mole Testing or whatever. It just seemed too weird to have someone else play with it after it was removed from my body.

Are you grossed out yet? I am. Otto Desiccator is awesome though.


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