# Writing > Short Story Sharing >  Mohs Nose

## Steven Hunley

*Mohs Nose*

The procedure is drawing near and Im beginning to show the strain. Before this it was stiff upper lip. But now my bottom lip is trembling in anticipation of the unknown. Barb faced cancer a few years ago. Now its my turn.

They say it may be all day, to bring a lunch. That doesnt sound good. 

Theyre cutting the basil cell carcinoma out. 

Then they take the slice of you out and take it to a lab. Somebody in a white coat freezes it so they can slice it and dice it to a get a 3-D view of the tumor. 

Sometimes they have roots that grow deeper into your flesh, Barb tells me. Did you hear they can have roots?

Yes, I did. But Im hoping mine isnt like that.

When she was battling breast cancer, I had a sty in my eye. She got all the attention and I had to sleep upstairs when I was suspected of having a cold. She got bouquets, cards, cookies left on the doorstep, and deserved it all, bravely battling a disease that could have done her in if shed given up. Now Ive got the least harmful version of the same disease, Im shaking in my boots, and the treatment hasnt even started.

If youre going to get a cancer, they told me, basil cell carcinoma is the one to get. Its the most treatable.

I suppose that was said to soothe me. Its good news as far as it goes, but it leaves out the ugly procedures. Her biopsies and breast-Xrays, those horrible machines she put up with, now I must face them myself. 

Shell be with me day after tomorrow and shell have to drive me home. Ill be an altered state. And the idiot bandages the size of a football on my nose wont be alone. Theyll be on my ear too.

They may have to cover the hole on my nose with a skin graft theyll cut from my ear.

Barb reached up and fondled my lobes with both hands.

Youve got plenty of material to work with. 

Now she starts singing, to the tune of the 1930s song Toot Toot Tootsie Goodbye.

Root root rootsy goodbye,

Root root rootsy dont cry, 

Watch for the slice,

If it dont look nice,

Then take your knife and go back in,

Just one more slice and dice again,

Root root rootsy goodbye,

Root root rootsy dont cry.

For a significant other, Barb shows no mercy. Shes attempting to toughen me up. She should have been a Spartan instead of an Ashkenazi. 

I admit its referred to as minor surgery. They intend to give me a local. Its nothing. Yet Im cringing because Im facing a new experience, facing the unknown. At least I dont have to face it alone.

Im going to sleep close to Barb tonight and hear some of that brave and confident tone she gives me when we first cuddle up, and her soft and secure tone just before we fall asleep.

Hearing her so close always helps soothe me.

***

©StevenHunley2020

to be continued...?

https://youtu.be/KD_YRnuuKyY Toot, Toot, Tootsie! - Al Jolson

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## MANICHAEAN

Hi Buddy

Not sure if this one was in the realms of fiction or reality. Too much feeling expressed to take it as the former.

Hence a bit of advice based on my own experience. All those years under the sun in Africa and the Middle East meant the price I paid was precursors to skin cancer: actinic keratosis and BCC. Lots of positives. You can see it. Its not inside. Thus you can diagnose it quicker & more effectively. I've had so many BCC's cut out of me, ( forehead, shoulders, arm, legs) that I really wonder sometimes if there is anything original left!!

As for cutting out the bcc, its no big deal. Local injection, don't feel a thing while its being cut, nor the stitch's afterwards. Bit like having a tooth out actually, though you can chat to the dermatologist while its ongoing.

Good luck
M.

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## Danik 2016

Hi, Steve,
Your protagonist will get out of it victoriously as always. And I demand a sequel! :Thumbsup:

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## Steven Hunley

Thanks guys, you made my day, hence:

That was day one. Heres two days before the dirty deed.

After sleeping on it, Ive decided I should simplify things. There are two possible outcomes, and only two. Either I end up more handsome than ever, or end up the Elephant Man. Heres why.

Ive been doing my research and found out that Hugh Jackman has suffered from the same affliction over three times! Hes had the procedure three times too. And look at him! Was he always this handsome? Was he always this buffed? According to his high-school picture on Google he wasnt. Could it be that the procedure had something to do with it?

Will the procedure have the same effect on me? I am kind of skinny. Maybe my hair might go back to its original color too. I could get used to being buffed and having my Clooney hair restored to its original luster.

The other side of the coin is where things go terribly wrong, I end up a freak and have to get a job in a circus side-show.

Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, and see The Guy That Used To Be Normal.

Youre making too much of this, Barb tells me. Im worrying about the *Corona virus!* Its serious stuff!

*What?* Please! _This_ is serious stuff!

I point to my beak.

Yours is an existential threat! You may or may not get it! This is my fricken nose. Its right here,_ in the center of my fricken face!"
_
I gesture.

Maybe theyll cut out too much and Ill end up with no nose at all. Ill be the Man with No Nose.

Ill still love you anyway.

But you wont be able to kiss my nose. After all, where would Cyrano de Bergerac be without his nose? Or Charles De Gaulle, or Jimmy Durante?

Barbara Streisand?

You understand.

I do, she said, and kissed my sickly nose.

Later, when Im back in the kitchen, I wonder if I went too far with the Hugh Jackman Wolverine bit. The bad doctors operated on him and changed him. The good doctors are operating on and changing me. Ive never met these doctors before. I hope they dont slip up. I pray they got enough sleep the night before, and dont have any arguments with their significant others just before they go to work. I pray they will be tender with their sharp instruments of healing. And keep in mind, I was the dude who argued that dentists were invasive because they put their fingers in your mouth.

And now this.

And another thing. Its all done while Im awake. *Awake!* They say they have a solution to this too,

Were going to give you Ativan to relax you.

Once, about twenty years ago I was in a doctors office and sitting on his desk was a three-sided cardboard box with Ativan printed on the side. There was a picture of a sailboat on a calm blue lake in the Swiss Alps, you could see white mountain tops off in the distance.

So, Ativan makes you feel like youre on a placid lake. It better, because while youre cruising on some placid lake, a couple of other people wearing gloves and masks are slicing and dicing and picking at your nose, and you cant ignore or dismiss them, because the cancer is not as remote as your big toe or as far away as your butt this time, *its right in the middle of your face.*

©StevenHunley2020

----------


## Steven Hunley

When it came to the big day, the doctor and nurses were welcoming and friendly. I asked the doctor questions.

‘How many of these procedures have you done? A dozen? More than a dozen? "

The nurse and Doc laugh. “How many, Betty? Three thousand something?”

“Maybe a few more.”

“I completed a fellowship in Mohs surgery.”

“We do from five to seven a day.”

“My wife is a psychologist. She was reading a book once where a guy said to master something you had to put in 10,000 hours. For marriage and family therapists, it’s 3,500 hours.”

“Malcolm Gladwell! The Tipping Point. I read it too.”

They toss a white towel with a square cut out of the middle over my mug. I feel some pin pricks, then pressure, then the tiny sting of Novocain.

I can tell, they’re slicing. The dicing will come later in the lab. Seems like, from my side of the towel, there’s a movement, probably the scalpel, then I feel pressure done by a second set of fingers, then the scalpel moves on in an arc. Someone asks for something, and the second someone is grabbing something and giving it to the first someone. 

I hear a tiny sizzle. 

Then I smell steak, or some kind of meat, cooking, and it suddenly occurs to my Ativaned Self that the meat is me.

“Ah, I’m the one barbequing, and there’s no Guacamole in sight.” I understand this is the Ativan talking, but it’s just as unnerving as if it wasn’t.

Then there’s a few more mumbled-jumbled voices going back and forth, and then… just like at the French Oven Bakery,.. “Viola!” off comes the white cloth, and there I am.
“Wow! You sounded just like Yves at the French Oven. When he pops a baguette into your bag, that’s just what it’s like! Are you done baking me yet?”

I admit I’m getting a little too familiar with the health-care strangers here, even though I admit I allowed them to and probe and slice and dice me. These are white-uniformed, clean-starched, ultra-certificated professionals here, and with them, you don’t play, no matter how sedated you are.

Sorry, it’s the Ativan talking,” I explain weakly. 

They patch me up and send me out in the waiting room to wait. It’s the lab’s turn to mess with my parts, as icky and diseased as they are.

Out to Barb’s side I skate on the smooth clean antiseptic floor, wearing my Edgar Allan Poe socks. I remind myself of Tom Cruise, even though I’ve had more than enough of Tom Cruise.

For the life of me, I can’t remember much of what happened then, except there was this guy in the waiting room talking nonstop to some lady. When I left, he was talking non-stop and here he is again with the same exact act. I’m supposed to be zombie-out on Ativan at this point, and calm and relaxed, just like in the picture of Lake Geneva. Nothing is supposed to bother me, nothing is supposed to irritate the crap out of me…but this guy does. Now I see how Barb gets irritated when I show her this same act. He just goes on and on. You wait for his spring to wind down, but it’s No Can Do. One wild thought leads to another and we’re off on The Crazy Train. I bet he’s as nervous as I am numb. 

Barb puts up with me. She’s uncomfortable as all get-out, stuck in an uncomfortable chair for hours, worrying more with each passing minute, all for the man she loves. I know when I’ve been blessed and understand for the first-time what Bashert really means. 

I go back in for round two. This time they dig deeper, slice deeper, then go for my ear to scrape a little cartilage,

“Gives your nose more supporting structure, we wouldn’t want it to collapse when you take a deep breath.”

“That’s O.K.” I’m thinking, as Ativanned and calmly as humanly possible. “I’ve always wanted my ear to be part of my nose.” 

Then they bandage me up and sew me up and hand me some paperwork that I promptly lose and won’t find again for a couple of days. The long and short of it is, I have to come back.

***

©StevenHunley2020

----------


## Steven Hunley

When it came to the big day, the doctor and nurses were welcoming and friendly. I asked the doctor questions.

‘How many of these procedures have you done? A dozen? More than a dozen? "

The nurse and Doc laugh. “How many, Betty? Three thousand something?”

“Maybe a few more.”

“I completed a fellowship in Mohs surgery.”

“We do from five to seven a day.”

“My wife is a psychologist. She was reading a book once where a guy said to master something you had to put in 10,000 hours. For marriage and family therapists, it’s 3,500 hours.”

“Malcolm Gladwell! The Tipping Point. I read it too.”

They toss a white towel with a square cut out of the middle over my mug. I feel some pin pricks, then pressure, then the tiny sting of Novocain.

I can tell, they’re slicing. The dicing will come later in the lab. Seems like, from my side of the towel, there’s a movement, probably the scalpel, then I feel pressure done by a second set of fingers, then the scalpel moves on in an arc. Someone asks for something, and the second someone is grabbing something and giving it to the first someone. 

I hear a tiny sizzle. 

Then I smell steak, or some kind of meat, cooking, and it suddenly occurs to my Ativaned Self that the meat is me.

“Ah, I’m the one barbequing, and there’s no Guacamole in sight.” I understand this is the Ativan talking, but it’s just as unnerving as if it wasn’t.

Then there’s a few more mumbled-jumbled voices going back and forth, and then… just like at the French Oven Bakery,.. “Viola!” off comes the white cloth, and there I am.
“Wow! You sounded just like Yves at the French Oven. When he pops a baguette into your bag, that’s just what it’s like! Are you done baking me yet?”

I admit I’m getting a little too familiar with the health-care strangers here, even though I admit I allowed them to and probe and slice and dice me. These are white-uniformed, clean-starched, ultra-certificated professionals here, and with them, you don’t play, no matter how sedated you are.

Sorry, it’s the Ativan talking,” I explain weakly. 

They patch me up and send me out in the waiting room to wait. It’s the lab’s turn to mess with my parts, as icky and diseased as they are.

Out to Barb’s side I skate on the smooth clean antiseptic floor, wearing my Edgar Allan Poe socks. I remind myself of Tom Cruise, even though I’ve had more than enough of Tom Cruise.

For the life of me, I can’t remember much of what happened then, except there was this guy in the waiting room talking nonstop to some lady. When I left, he was talking non-stop and here he is again with the same exact act. I’m supposed to be zombie-out on Ativan at this point, and calm and relaxed, just like in the picture of Lake Geneva. Nothing is supposed to bother me, nothing is supposed to irritate the crap out of me…but this guy does. Now I see how Barb gets irritated when I show her this same act. He just goes on and on. You wait for his spring to wind down, but it’s No Can Do. One wild thought leads to another and we’re off on The Crazy Train. I bet he’s as nervous as I am numb. 

Barb puts up with me. She’s uncomfortable as all get-out, stuck in an uncomfortable chair for hours, worrying more with each passing minute, all for the man she loves. I know when I’ve been blessed and understand for the first-time what Bashert really means. 

I go back in for round two. This time they dig deeper, slice deeper, then go for my ear to scrape a little cartilage,

“Gives your nose more supporting structure, we wouldn’t want it to collapse when you take a deep breath.”

“That’s O.K.” I’m thinking, as Ativanned and calmly as humanly possible. “I’ve always wanted my ear to be part of my nose.” 

Then they bandage me up and sew me up and hand me some paperwork that I promptly lose and won’t find again for a couple of days. The long and short of it is, I have to come back.

***

©StevenHunley2020

https://youtu.be/G2UVsyVLLcE Old Time Rock and Roll Bob Seger

----------


## Steven Hunley

When it came to the big day, the doctor and nurses were welcoming and friendly. I asked the doctor questions.

How many of these procedures have you done? A dozen? More than a dozen? "

The nurse and Doc laugh. How many, Betty? Three thousand something?

Maybe a few more.

I completed a fellowship in Mohs surgery.

We do from five to seven a day.

My wife is a psychologist. She was reading a book once where a guy said to master something you had to put in 10,000 hours. For marriage and family therapists, its 3,500 hours.

Malcolm Gladwell! The Tipping Point. I read it too.

They toss a white towel with a square cut out of the middle over my mug. I feel some pin pricks, then pressure, then the tiny sting of Novocain.

I can tell, theyre slicing. The dicing will come later in the lab. Seems like, from my side of the towel, theres a movement, probably the scalpel, then I feel pressure done by a second set of fingers, then the scalpel moves on in an arc. Someone asks for something, and the second someone is grabbing something and giving it to the first someone. 

I hear a tiny sizzle. 

Then I smell steak, or some kind of meat, cooking, and it suddenly occurs to my Ativaned Self that the meat is me.

Ah, Im the one barbequing, and theres no Guacamole in sight. I understand this is the Ativan talking, but its just as unnerving as if it wasnt.

Then theres a few more mumbled-jumbled voices going back and forth, and then just like at the French Oven Bakery,.. Viola! off comes the white cloth, and there I am.
Wow! You sounded just like Yves at the French Oven. When he pops a baguette into your bag, thats just what its like! Are you done baking me yet?

I admit Im getting a little too familiar with the health-care strangers here, even though I admit I allowed them to and probe and slice and dice me. These are white-uniformed, clean-starched, ultra-certificated professionals here, and with them, you dont play, no matter how sedated you are.

Sorry, its the Ativan talking, I explain weakly. 

They patch me up and send me out in the waiting room to wait. Its the labs turn to mess with my parts, as icky and diseased as they are.

Out to Barbs side I skate on the smooth clean antiseptic floor, wearing my Edgar Allan Poe socks. I remind myself of Tom Cruise, even though Ive had more than enough of Tom Cruise.

For the life of me, I cant remember much of what happened then, except there was this guy in the waiting room talking nonstop to some lady. When I left, he was talking non-stop and here he is again with the same exact act. Im supposed to be zombie-out on Ativan at this point, and calm and relaxed, just like in the picture of Lake Geneva. Nothing is supposed to bother me, nothing is supposed to irritate the crap out of mebut this guy does. Now I see how Barb gets irritated when I show her this same act. He just goes on and on. You wait for his spring to wind down, but its No Can Do. One wild thought leads to another and were off on The Crazy Train. I bet hes as nervous as I am numb. 

Barb puts up with me. Shes uncomfortable as all get-out, stuck in an uncomfortable chair for hours, worrying more with each passing minute, all for the man she loves. I know when Ive been blessed and understand for the first-time what Bashert really means. 

I go back in for round two. This time they dig deeper, slice deeper, then go for my ear to scrape a little cartilage,

Gives your nose more supporting structure, we wouldnt want it to collapse when you take a deep breath.

Thats O.K. Im thinking, as Ativanned and calmly as humanly possible. Ive always wanted my ear to be part of my nose. 

Then they bandage me up and sew me up and hand me some paperwork that I promptly lose and wont find again for a couple of days. The long and short of it is, I have to come back.

***

©StevenHunley2020

https://youtu.be/G2UVsyVLLcE Old Time Rock and Roll Bob Seger

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## Danik 2016

Tragicomic story! The best of it: the worst seems to be over!

----------


## Steven Hunley

Its Thursday and Ive already screwed up due to my level of anxiety. When I left, I was all bandaged up with one set plastered all over one side of my nose at the top and running down as far as the corner of my mouth at the bottom. This white whale of a bandage, this Moby Dick, bulges out too. Hes sick!

Im hoping that its wads of cotton bulging out there, not swollen wads of my nose bulging out there.

And under that? Just what? Are they done? Whats the damage? I want to survey the damage and Google the results.

I know I have an appointment today, and spring up in time to make it there just five minutes late at 8:35. The nurse cant find my name, mainly because I have an appointment for 1:30.

Now I have more time to go home on Pomerado Road and stew in my own juices.

Barb will find me something to do, like wipe down the entire house, all the surfaces she tells me, with Lysol or Clorox wipes, my choice. Thats what you do in a pandemic, wash your hands, keep your distance, wear your mask.

We get on each others nerves for a moment but only for that. Shes concerned about the lousy percentage of people our age that contract the virus and bite the dust.

I could easily get it too, because of my close contacts with over a hundred students on any given day. She makes dozens of contacts in her practice too. She may have to give up her practice to survive. We have to support each other while our worlds turn topsy-turvy in this time of the deadly pandemic.

When I return at the appointed hour, nurse Letty cleans the wound and dresses it again until Monday, when the Doc will take a look and decide if a skin graft is needed. I see whats under the bandages for the first time.

Folks, it aint the Monster in Frankenstein, but it aint pretty either.

And it looks like I wont have to wear crazy-big bandages to work either, because the word is out, Sweetwater and San Diego Unified are cancelling school. 

In addition, Barb and I decide to self-quarantine. Im beginning to see this as a sort of test, in the finest Jack London tradition, of two people, in close contact with each other, in a remote and restricted place, where theyre ready to tear each-others liver out because theyre going stir-crazy and wound much too tight! 

Will they survive, or wont they? Seriously, with the numbers against us, like age and pre-existing conditions, we have to stay alert and vigilant to survive. The setting is different, but it remains the same story of two people, cut-off from the world, back-to-back, belly-to-belly, against all odds. The only odds were trying to change is that 18 percent or more of us old geezers who catch it and die. Thats nearly one of out five. Were betting our lives were going to be the 4 out 5 who make it.

And if that isnt dramatic, if that isnt serious, nothing on earth is.

My next appointment I show up early, as Im too anxiety-ridden to remember to phone beforehand, as Ive lost the little appointment card they gave me. The last one I located was by accident; Id used in as a bookmark in Zolas The Ladies Paradise. But it was for the 10th. Ill probably find this one in a couple of months. 

And I notice a pattern here. I need something but cant find it. I stress. I stress. It only after the non-cancelable order or non-returnable item is purchased to replace it, then and only then, does the original lost bad boy turn up. This may be the law of the jungle, or at least the law of my particular jungle, but this is how it always turns out. 

But right when Im running out of way to spend my time, the phone rings, and can I come in early? Indeed, I can.

Better whip out the Exam Grade, Powder Free, Textured, Latex Free, Non-Sterile, Blue Nitrile, gloves and get going. 



©StevenHunley2020

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## MANICHAEAN

Hang in there buddy.

Remember that Nelson lost an arm and an eye before he hit the big time!!!!

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## Danik 2016

Hope nose is justifying its fame by doing better and better.

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## Steven Hunley

> Hope nose is justifying its fame by doing better and better.


It is, and so.....


Pomerado road to Poway is a walk in the park since the Virus locked us down, scenic, tranquil, unspoiled, a Southern California genuine imitation of a country road. Poway? Should I stop into the 99-cent store on the way? No way, Im a man on a mission, one involving my nose, its healing, and a skin graft. 
The only cinematic history with skin grafts I have is the 1934 Bella Lugosi, Boris Karloff, movie The Black Cat, where one skins the other. I remember it well. It scared the you-know-what out of me. Remembering 30s noir doesnt help.

Later, in the exam room, Letty tells me I have time and leaves me alone. They have a mirror. I have a picture.

Its me, holding my trusty Nikon, wearing my black Holden Caulfield coat, over my black Hiroshige print T-shirt, with my blue-nitrile gloves. Theyre the same kind of gloves I used when re-sticking wallpaper to the bathroom walls, and that makes me think of Barbara, and how when I was leaving to come here, we blew kisses across the room at each other. It was the No Can Touch rule she put into gear due to the virus, so we improvise. 

And today they may remove the stitches in my ear, where the surgeon mined the cartilage for the nose repair, but the Hole of Calcutta will remain until they patch it up. I dont like the word graft. It reminds me too much of the president.

Now three of them stroll in, Doc, Letty, and some other lady, and I take a seat on a piece of paper, paper that comes on a roll from behind the seat somewhere, and they toss it the trash after you leave. Im tall, but that doesnt mean my legs arent dangling over the seat like a nine-year-old. That reveals my state of mind. 
Sitting on the wax paper, getting ready to be examined, makes me feel like a Crispy Crème donut. All three of these stylish health professionals are on point, hungry for information, ready to devour me with their eyes, all three are wearing blue nondescript gowns and masks. Lucky for me I already know them. 

Off comes the bandage.

Ooh! they say, as all six eyes widen.

Yes, I say proudly, Im really happy about how its turning out.

Like a runway model donut sitting on wax paper I show them all the angles.

After they take a communal look at my mug, they turn to each other and six eyebrows, all on fleek I must mention, these women are professionals, bounce up.

See?
They look at each other in turn and even under the blue masks you can see a bulge where their cheeks swell. 

They happy.

So do you really think I need to come back? I mean, what with the Covid Pandemic and all, how many more visits and how much more time will it take? 

They go through the routine, a routine too ugly, too painful, too time consuming, too risky, to mention in detail. This sets my mind spinning when it comes to possible consequences, like a scar that strangers may question and decide to give me the third degree.

When someone asks, What happened to your face? Ill tell them. Its a dueling scar, got it in Heidelberg while at the university. 

Instead, I tell these three masked ladies.

You know, as women, you have it hard. One little crows foot, and you are deemed an ancient grand-dame, no longer the siren you used to be. When a man gets a wrinkle, hes not older, hes just more rugged. So Ive decided to be more rugged.

They happy.

Theyve probably had enough of me anyway. But I drone on.

And considering its going to be some time before I see you guys again, your gonna have to listen to this. If this Covid pandemic is a war, and I think it is, then _you_ are the front-line troops. You never know where any of your patients have been before they walk in your door. You do your best to serve others and understand youre putting yourself, and therefore your families, at risk.

Yet you continue to protect and serve. 

I was a mess when I walked in here, afraid of what was going to happen. Yet it all turned out so well. I write stories when Im going through a scary medical procedure. In fact, Im writing one about this. When its done, Ill send you a copy! Its the second one Ive done on what I call invasive procedures. I even did one on a colonoscopy once. Called it The Procedure.

My husband would be interested in that, said the fair-haired surgeon I cannot name due to HIPPA and Friends. Hes a gastroenterologist.

Ill send you a copy.

We all smile at each other, but now my mask is on too and its time to go. I slip my blue Nitrile gloves back on and exit stage left out the door, into the car, and off I head, into the sunset.

The drive is familiar, but life lately isnt. I make vain attempts to normalize this mask thing, by commenting on their fashionable aspects instead of their pain-in-the-*** aspects. Theyre hot, theyre uncomfortable too. These new fashion accessories arent easy to wear. The gloves are harder to put back on after youve sweated in them. How can people be into latex and sex at the same time? Dont they get sweaty? I only find out later they're for a single use.

The last time I reused a pair one finger tore out, right when I was going into Vons supermarket. Had to shop and guide the idiot shopping basket one-handed. Nearly broke my wrist.

A strap on my mask broke too, right when I was going into Bank of America to liberate my first unemployment money. There was quite a line of expectant humans snaking around the bank when it happened. And the weirdest thing about it was, I had the impression I was a woman who just had her bra-strap break and left my fly open at the same time. Double whoops!

Maybe, if this pandemic holds out for a long enough, well get used to things like this. 

But lets pray the doctors come up with a vaccine first.

Until then, I want all of my readers to stay safe. If I didn't have you, who would read my stuff? You don't say anything but so what? You've got your reasons, whatver they are.

I'm the last one to judge.

©StevenHunley2020

https://youtu.be/4SreNsrMu7k 1985 Greg Phillinganes : Behind the Mask

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## Danik 2016

Lol. Nose doing as well as can be expected. As they say in Victorian novels from a woman just recovering of childbirth.

And some things have quickly become universal:

"The drive is familiar, but life lately isnt."

"A strap on my mask broke too, right when I was going into Bank of America to liberate my first unemployment money. There was quite a line of expectant humans snaking around the bank when it happened. And the weirdest thing about it was, I had the impression I was a woman who just had her bra-strap break and left my fly open at the same time." 

Don´t worry. People were probably concerned about their money, not your mask.

Stay safe and take goo care of your nose!

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## Danik 2016

Lol. Nose doing as well as can be expected. As they say in Victorian novels from a woman just recovering of childbirth.

And some things have quickly become universal:

"The drive is familiar, but life lately isnt."

"A strap on my mask broke too, right when I was going into Bank of America to liberate my first unemployment money. There was quite a line of expectant humans snaking around the bank when it happened. And the weirdest thing about it was, I had the impression I was a woman who just had her bra-strap break and left my fly open at the same time." 

Don´t worry. People were probably concerned about their money, not your mask.

Stay safe and take good care of your nose!

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## Steven Hunley

Update:

The Mohs nose is all healed up and I got the "rugged" look I bargained for. No one even asks about it. Then again, how can they see it? The mask blocks your nose.

On the Covid front: I have my first of two shots! I'm going to be partially immune...in a while. But when? I heard that someone got their first shot, then bumped into Mr. Covid somewhere and caught it before they got their second shot. So we've decided to hide out more than ever. Everything will be delivered here instead of us going out.

So I'm at the kitchen table and I hear an Amazon truck pull up outside. And it's just not the truck breaks I hear, it's Living on a Prayer by Bon Jovi blasting from speakers in the truck. The driver has placed a package on the porch and is already sprinting down the walkway to get another package for the folks across the street.

Now that he's stepped away from our door I open it up to get the package. Now I can see him, and the music is blasting louder than ever. He's got red hair tied up in a knot like an exploding volcano and he's singing at the top of his lungs,

"Oh, we're half-way there,... Oh, we're livin' on a prayer." 

And I'm thinking, "Hey! I'M The ONE who's half-way there!!! (the first shot) * I'M THE ONE* who's livin' on a prayer! (and praying I don't bump into somebody who's bumped into somebody who has Covid). 

Seriously folks, I don't make this **** up. I just record it.

©Steven Hunley 2021

https://youtu.be/keZ0vigZz3Y Bon Jovi Living on a Prayer

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## Danik 2016

Wise resolutions, Steven. And let´s register here that you are the first Litnetter that records being vaccinated. Solid luck!

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## MANICHAEAN

Steve. First shot takes 3 weeks to build up the antibodies & the resistance can vary, according on what brand you got. Astra Zenica, Pfizer, Sputnik, Bleach.

Sorry bud. 21 days as a recluse.

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## Danik 2016

Bleach? That´s a joke, of course?

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## MANICHAEAN

No my friend. None other than Donald Trump (ex USA President) recommended it!!!!

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## Danik 2016

Yes, I remember. Just didn't trust my eyes when I saw it on the list  :Biggrin: !

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