Y’all remember the movie where the popular teenaged girl woke up with a zit one morning that just got bigger and bigger until a gajillion spiders popped out of it as she stood screaming in the bathroom at school? No? Just me? Well look it up – it certainly won’t scar you for life or anything. Nah, no recurring concerns about each and every zit that pops up. Nope. All good. Rationality reigns, baby.

So, today? I woke up with a big fat, red spider bump on my face. While I’m fairly certain that this nearly inch-by-half-inch puffy mound resting peacefully and painlessly underneath my right eye isn’t going to produce minions of spiders – and, as well, there are no enterance wounds to be found – it is decidedly not a zit. And, in fact, I have no fucking clue what it is.

The last several years have seen me arrive to work with bumps and brusies and, yes, even a black eye or two – none that I could blame on anything but booze. I am the blackout queen, comparable to but a few, and accepted – perhaps even judged – by the rest.

Anterograde amnesia, the technical term for the whole shebang, is fairly common in binge drinking, and Mama knows I was pretty skilled in the ways of the Binger. So scrapes, bumps, brusies, and even sprains have been a result of my motor skills tossing me the bird after three or four too many. But that was then…

Today, while I do drink – and certainly partook during my visit home last week – I usually do not do so to excess. And last night? I had just one beer, which I happily paired with veggie tacos. I had a great night – and I remember it all, including the absence of falls, spills or any direct contact with my face.

So, this itchless, painless little lump appears to have no purpose other than to distract my right eyeball as it can’t not see the puffy check protruding from below. And after Ibuprofen, cold compresses and a warm washrag, ain’t nothing assisting in its diminishment. But. Gave me something to write about, so there’s that….