I have a wrist wart.
No, scratch that. I had a wrist wart. For a long time. It annoyed me, but I did very little about it. There’s something called a Wart Stick, and it’s supposed to gradually burn the wart away. All it did, however, was turn the surrounding skin red and raw.
Sometimes I’d pick and pick at the wart. With my fingernail. With something sharp. It’d bleed, callous, bleed some more, callous, then grow back to normal wart size.
Anyhow, today I had an appointment with a dermatologist for a regular body scan. After completing the task she said, “Anything else concerning you?” I showed her the wart—right wrist. “Do you want me to burn that off?”
Ew, I, eh, guess so. OK.
She inserted a needle to numb the thing. Hurt a bit. I looked away, and felt a slight tingling. Then I smelled something cooking. Sorta like the scent from the elementary school cafeteria on bacon day. For some reason, my mind didn’t connect the odor and what was going on. Then I said, “Is that my burning flesh?”
“Indeed,” she said, “it is.”
Now the wart is gone.
For the time being.