So, I was supposed to get it off today. (Did you know the cooter doctor now has no co-pay for annual visits? Thanks, Obama!) But it’s fucked me over. Because it’s kind of torn at the base, it’s got a little yucky spot of irritation on my thigh. So, I have to Neosporin it and then, instead of just being shaved off, the cooter doctor is going to have to cut into my thigh a little to make sure there’s no infection.
Yes, I will be spending the next three weeks trying to heal my witch’s tit so that it is healthy enough to be removed.
I didn’t ask her if it was possible that the irritation was caused by the Devil suckling on it while I sleep, but that’s only because obviously that’s what’s gone wrong here.
I tell you, people, getting older is just a fucking wonderland of weird ass shit that your body does for no reason.
But, apparently, the witch’s tit has chosen cooter-side seats because it is warm and moist there, which, let’s be frank, is why the Devil would be hanging out there, too.
So, there you have it.I have to continue to suckle The Beast, which you know means motherfucking Glen Danzig is going to just creepily stand in my closet sniffing my bras, which is what Glen Danzig does while the Devil harasses you. It’s a whole thing. Glen Danzig sniffs your bras in your closet. Your cats recite “Stairway to Heaven” backwards. Lord Byron eats all your potato salad and then demands more. It’s terrible. Never get a motherfucking witch’s tit.