So, for most people, summer is something they count down the days to. The sun shines longer, the drinks are colder, and the weather is warmer. People use their PTO days to head down to the beach, or just play hooky on a Friday to get a jump start on their weekend by a body of water. It’s well known that everyone’s work ethic plummets during the summer, and their alcohol intake skyrockets.
For me, it’s full of terror… or, at least, it used to be.
You see, I was born with what you would call a third nipple. I’ll give you a minute to let that sink in.
I can picture your disgusted face staring at your computer screen when you should be putting together your fourth Excel spreadsheet of the week. Am I some type of X-Men mutant freak with special powers because of this genetic deformity? Unfortunately, this third nipple doesn’t allow me to read minds or manipulate metal — it just gives me the opportunity to be verbally assaulted during the summer months.
This third nipple was a little smaller than the size penny on my chest, but nonetheless, it was highly embarrassing growing up as a kid. I would try to play it off as a mole when I was younger, but people would gather around and confirm amongst themselves that it was indeed a small third nipple. It was like I was a lifeless carcass thrown in front of a pack of hyenas to devour. Did these vultures not know I had feelings? Emotions? I’m a damn human being, for Christ’s sake!
So, after suffering through years of humiliation I made a rash decision…It was time to chop this bad boy off. The issue here was that I was 15 years old so my mother was in charge of scheduling this procedure. I’m not too sure what type of research mom did into “third nipple removal procedures,” but it wasn’t a lot. I was taken to some type of two-bit clinic where I was assured there would be minimal scarring and you wouldn’t even be able to notice that any procedure had taken place.
Dead wrong on that one, doctor.
I was left with a scar about the size of the caterpillar on my chest, which is even more noticeable than the third nipple that was there before it. Now I get asked, “What’s that scar on your chest?” every time I take my shirt off. I try to come up with some elaborate answer but people can see right through me, and I end up getting around to the botched third nipple removal saga.
So, why am I posting this embarrassing fact about me for the whole internet to see? The answer is simple… it’s time to let our freak flags fly, folks. We all have weird quirks about our personalities or minor physical flaws that we’re all self-conscious about, so I’m going to be rocking mine poolside with a Miller High Life in hand this summer.
I’m done trying to cover it up with some concocted story about how I got stabbed in a bar fight (shockingly people didn’t buy that a 5’8, 150-pound guy was much of a bar fighter). When I get asked about it by someone when my shirt is off, I’m going to own the fact that I lost the genetic lottery when I was born. All you can do is play the cards you’re dealt, folks.
Time to usher in the summer of the third nipple scar. .
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