I’ve been known to get hysterical from time to time. Usually this means that I get into a pattern of thinking that everything I say is HILARIOUS when really what’s occurring is that I start to act like a total shithead. The Prince bears the brunt of this nowadays because he lives with me. I admit that sometimes I’m just being a shit, but in my defense, sometimes I AM HILARIOUS.
The Prince has a tiny little benign cyst on his back under his right shoulder blade. It’s so small; it’s like the size of a baby pea. It doesn’t hurt or bother him in any way so he’s never done anything about it. I noticed it sometime around the point in our relationship when he began to be shirtless all the time.
Because I am a freak, this little bump on my boyfriend’s back started to make me curious. After weeks of us both referring to it as “the tumor”, I decided to do some quality investigating. So I googled. I googled to find out what it was and learned that it’s perfectly harmless and that I should leave it alone because it’s fine and happy just the way it is. This is apparently not the discovery my sick, sick little brain was hoping to make.
Last night, when I started to feel a total hysterical phase coming on, I decided I’d use my motivation and the cyst in the room for blog content. Under the pretense of giving The Prince a hug, I reached for the little bump on his back and sort of poked at it.
The Prince: “What, may I ask, are you doing to that? You’ve spent the last week googling it trying to figure out if you can convince me to have it surgically removed, and now you’re poking at my tumor again?”
Me: “Can I just take a picture of it to put on my blog? It’s for science, I swear. Blog science. I need new content.”
The Prince: “No. No. NO! You absolutely cannot take a picture of my medical mystery and put it on the internet BECAUSE YOU NEED NEW BLOG CONTENT.”
*Because I am not a quitter, it was at this point that I went and grabbed my camera and proceeded to chase The Prince around the apartment trying to take a picture of his bare back.*
Me: “I AM NOT A QUITTER. I WILL WAIT UNTIL YOU FALL ASLEEP. I WILL STAY UP ALL NIGHT. I WILL HUNT THE CYST.”
The Prince: “I will wear a shirt all the time from now on!”
Me, with a raised eyebrow: “No you won’t.”
The Prince, with a shrug: “Yeah, I know.”
*About two minutes later I decided I was tired and wanted to go to bed. Shortly after I made The Prince tuck me in, I called him back to the bedroom. My games were not over.*
Me: “Baaaaabbbbbyyyyyy? I’m thirsty.”
*The Prince brought me some water, I drank it. Before he left again, however:*
Me: “Can I please have a hug?”
The Prince: “No. You don’t want a hug. You just want to touch my tumor.”
Me: “Nooo! I just want to say goodnight!”
The Prince caved and gave me a hug. Of course I used the tactic to once again poke the cyst.
Me, whispering: “Gooodniiiiiight little tumor…”
The Prince let out a long, tired sigh.
Me: “I think he wants a name.”
The Prince: “What? Who?”
Me: “The cyst. I think I’ll call him Cystily. You know, like Sicily, only with CYST.”
The Prince: “Dear lord.”
Me: “Cysily! I like it. I wonder if he could assiCYST me with anything, or if he has a CYSTer? I think maybe he’s part of a larger CYSTem…. BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA”
The Prince: “Please, please stop. It’s not that funny. Stop laughing. Go to sleep.”
Me: “Wait, wait, he just said something. Cystily just said that when he grows up, he wants to be a physiCYST!”
The Prince: “I’m going to sleep on the couch.”
Me: “I think I’m gonna write a children’s book. A children’s book about Cystily and all his dreams and aspirations of becoming a physiCYST.”
At this point, I was both crying and howling with laughter. The Prince got up and walked out of the room.
Me: “Come on! That is SO funny! I am hilarious!”
The Prince, from the living room: “You’re a fricken’ RIOT.”
Me, yelling from the bed in a sing-song voice: “Gooooodniiiiiiiight Cyyysstilyyy, my darling little pet! I loooove youuuu! See you tomoooorrroooowwww!”