I had a fatty cyst removed from my forehead a couple weeks ago. It was a large benign tumor above my left eye. They just used local anesthesia. I didn't feel a thing. Or rather, I didn't feel any pain, but I could feel plenty of clipping and pulling. They sewed it back up with stitches. For someone who gets as much pleasure as I do out of bursting the boils, pimples, and pus-laden cysts that are so plentiful on my body, I feel I've been robbed of a certain perverse feeling of satisfaction. It would give me so much pleasure now to have it back, and cut it out myself. I often feel the wound on my forehead where it used to be, and imagine yanking the thing off my skull with a pair of pliers. Rip, pop, tear. Oh, it would be like heaven. But it was impossible. I wouldn't have been able to do it safely, it was so far under my skin and bound up in so many nerves, muscles, and tendrils of flesh that wrapped it through and bound it to my skull. I did, however, develop a boil on my upper thigh just before the surgery. I squeezed the pus out of it, but it must have gotten infected, because a blister formed. I left it alone for one or two days and then squeezed the blister. The blister was full of yellow pus. I don't know what I get out of draining those things. When my cat had acne all over his chin a few years ago, I took him to the vet. Her assistant was a fat young woman who kept squeezing my poor cat's pimples and saying, "Oh, we have so much fun when cats get acne on their chins-it's the only place they can't clean, you know, so it's very common." I could tell she was getting the same feeling of contentment I get when I pop those things. It's as if my flesh is crying to me, "Get this stuff out-get it out, get it out." And so it deposits the toxic bile where I can easily see it and squeeze it from my body-it becomes no longer Me, but It-a disgusting substance I want, because I want to get rid of it.