Yeah I got a mole on my neck. That’s right. Some people have to get them implanted but this hombre comes tumbling out of the womb all sextacular and ready to go. But. But it used to be taut and supple and now it’s starting to sag. It is lackluster. Self-esteem: 4.0 and sinking. Sometimes it sprouts a single hair that needs to be excised with an Xacto knife or the pinking shears. I hate you, neck mole. You think you encapsulate me, that if I cut you from my body you’ll just grow a new me and not even give the old me a second glance, just throwing away our time together as if was nothing — nothing. But I see your mole tears when you think I’m not looking, your stupid mole self-pity, your maudlin moley nostalgia as you long for the days when the girls would press you to see what’d happen. I wrap you in a foppish scarf made of loathing and Polartec®, neck mole. You are a blight. You should be hidden from the prying, greedy eyes of the media. I will pretend you don’t exist, mole. Because in my heart, and in the hearts of all good people, you don’t.