Today was a good day. I uprooted a wart that has been waxing and waning on my finger for the past six months. After several different methods of removal, I decided to try the straight application of salicylic acid. That treatment started two days ago. The bottle, being a puny entity, suggested a single drop be applied twice a day and proceeded to claim it would be a journey of about five weeks.

That is all well and good, but what of the microwave generation that wishes the fungi removed about 4.7 weeks sooner?

Needless to say I drowned the wart in acid like a drunkard drowns his sorrows--straight, for two days, and to the disregard of loved ones' behests.

By this evening, the infected area had softened up. Probably not anywhere near enough to remove even the top-most epidermal layer, but since when has raw meat not-yet-ready to be partaken of really stood in my way? So, I grabbed my trusty pin needle and pair of tweezer and set to poke-tweeze-repeat mode.

I hurt. I bled. I got light-headed. I physically removed all empirical traces of the wart.

I now have a crater in my finger reminiscent of high-altitude photographs of strip mines. It's a lack I love. I would do it all over again if I had the chance--masochistic satisfaction, friends. In fact, I cherish the moment so much, I chose to continue it and even memorialize it through a little something I like to call art.