16.

About eight years ago, a gigantic cyst developed on the back of my neck. It grew and grew; I had no idea what it was. One day, I squeezed it as hard as I could. The copious pus that came out smelled horrible—it gave me such satisfaction to get it finally out of my body. It was gone—I had done it. Over the years, I have, on and off, thought I felt a bump there, and squeezed it as hard as I could. Nothing ever comes out. There is a bump there, but whatever it is it is hard and deep under the skin. It’s not very pronounced, hardly even noticeable. But it bothers me. I think to myself, "There it is, deep in my skin—a pocket of that horrible smelling pus," and I squeeze it as hard as I can. Just a week ago, I ran a knife over my stove flame, rinsed it off to cool it, and tried to slice open the cyst. The only thing that came out was blood. It was one of those knives with teeth, and it was very dull; I had to saw back and forth for some time, all to no avail. My father happens to be in town right now so I showed him the next time I saw him. "That’s not a good idea," he said of my trying to slice at it with a knife. "If you get an infection there, it’s very close to your spine." He pushed on the cyst. "I don’t feel a cyst there," he said. "It could be scar tissue." I know he is right; I suspected it was only scar tissue before I tried to cut it open. But it was driving me crazy. I can still imagine the stale, festering smell that pus had when I burst the cyst years ago. I say to myself, "If that, is still in my body, I have to get it out."