Shakesville asked, and I’m answering. I have warts on my hands. My parents have always told me that no one can see them but me, but when I was in elementary school, the other kids refused to let me play Red Rover because they wouldn’t touch my warty hands. I went through the unspeakably painful process of having them frozen off with liquid nitrogen, and then I had scars even bigger and more noticeable than the warts were. I have new warts too, now (though they come and go with stress), but there’s no way I’ll get them frozen off this time.
I assure you, there really are new warts growing. If you check out the photos where I’ve hosted them on flickr, I’ve put little notes marking where the new ones are.
I scar really, really easily, actually– if it forms a scab, it leaves a scar, basically– so I’ve got lots of teeny ones all over. Plenty on my knees from when I was a kid, and on the underside of my chin, where, thankfully, they’re not visible. I also get pimples on my arms (another flaw!), and then I pick at them, so I have teeny-tiny scars all over my arms, too.
I hit my head on a sharp corner once as a kid, and for about eight years I had a scar between my eyebrows that looked oddly like a bruise. It was just a dark, purple smudge. I was really pleased the first year that it didn’t show up in my school portraits– I had finally outgrown the habit of running around outside and bruising my whole body, and while I was OK with getting funny looks for an “injury” when I’d just fallen out of the treehouse again, I didn’t appreciate it when I’d only been reading.
I also have two different graphite-colored scars from accidentally stabbing myself with pencils…
Man, I never used to understand why I’d stopped being such an active, outdoorsy kid, and why I started to loathe any physical activity– I think I’ve found the reason! Exercise hurts!