The Epic Saga of Testicles

I want to talk to you about yesterday, which was the worst day of my life in recent memory.  But first, I need to tell you about my balls.

A couple of years ago, I began to notice I had more balls than I used to.  I don't mean that I was suddenly unafraid of speaking my mind or something like that (I've pretty much maintained the same level of figurative testicular confidence in that regard since high school,) I mean that my scrotum was more fully packed than it had been in the past.

Palpating the region (as one does,) it felt as if one of my testes had grown, expanding to half again its original size.  This was obviously cause for concern, and my wife was particularly worried when I brought her attention to it (we have kids, so she has very little exposure to my genitals herself,) so I visited a doctor specializing in looking at scrota (on a related note; just as a public service announcement, you want to word that particular Google search carefully, because the internet is a wide and scary place.)

He palpated the region as well, and allayed my fears regarding testicular cancer.  As a side note; between this issue, fertility screenings, and all the attendant inspections involved with a kidney transplant, the number of gentlemen (not all of whom were gentle,) that have handled my junk is disturbingly high for one not normally given to such proclivities.

He explained, rather out of hand (no pun intended) that what I had was a spermatocele, a completely benign and common condition wherein a cyst forms on the outside of the epididymus, and tissue builds up around the teste.  By the way gents, DO NOT type 'spermatocele' into Google, because you know how a search usually has 'images for' as like the third option down, with a bunch of top images right there on the page?  Yeah, that.

The doctor assured me that this was completely harmless, and advised against any action, since surgery presents risks for transplant recipients, whereas the spermatocele does not.  So I left the office feeling relieved (and maybe just an eency bit violated by Dr. Coldfinger.)  I went on with my life as normal.

But the spermatocele kept growing.  I reminded my ever more concerned wife that the doctor said it was nothing, and we researched it online (fun family time indeed,) to assuage her fears.  But by the time my scrotum had grown to the size of an MLB regulation baseball, and no longer had any of the familiar surface reticulation normally associated with such organs, she felt I should get a second opinion.  She had never been satisfied with the "squeeze squeeze done" inspection I had received at the (cold) hands of the previous doctor, and wanted me to see another such specialist.

So, after doing some research and finding the best name in scrotal palpation available in my area, I went to see the new urologist for some more inspection (thus raising the aforementioned 'dudes who've handled my junk' counter yet again.  Seriously, my balls have had more digital manipulation than a Playboy centerfold photo.)

He too diagnosed a spermatocele, and had me verify this with a scrotal ultrasound (done by a female tech, which was awkward enough to make me no longer complain about subsequent manhandling.)  And yet again, given the lack of any pain, he advised a 'live and let live' approach towards the ball goblins overrunning my scrotum.

But the spermatocele kept growing.  My ball sack had swollen to such proportions that even my wife couldn't fail to notice.  When it reached the size of a fully-ripened grapefruit, she felt that action was required.  On my own part, I was only too happy to be rid of my unwelcome scrotal guests, and was eager to unpack my overstuffed luggage, so to speak, as the situation had become somewhat inconvenient.

And so I returned to my new doctor and told him that I wanted to go through with the operation to remove the superfluous testicular tissue.  The procedure is a simple one I learned, first requiring the surgeon to make a good-sized incision through the wall of the scrotum like a medieval cutpurse (don't wuss out on me know gents, this has only begun.)  The next step (and the terminology here is exquisite,) involves the teste in question (the queste?) being "delivered from the scrotum;" removed entirely from its accustomed carrying case and laid bare to the harsh elements, that the doctor can progress to the next phase, namely slicing away the excess tissue from the healthy teste.  With a knife, one imagines.

Then it's a simple matter of popping the ball back in the sack, stitching it up and Bob's yer uncle!

This of course all sounded fabulous to me, so I signed right up.  I had hoped to get this done over the holiday break, so that I could recuperate without missing any school, but they were all booked up till January (I guess Christmastime inspires men to empty their bulging sacks of goodies or something.)

But finally, after months of waiting and a truly frustrating rescheduling due to incorrect information (sometimes nurses and doctors each think the other has explained the necessary steps…) the big day arrived.  My doctor only performs these operations on Wednesdays, so I had taken off that day and the following Thursday and Friday for recovery.  A substitute had been called, detailed lesson plans left and lunches for my wife and kids pre-packed (the solemn duty of the diligent daddy.)

My most excellent wife had taken the day off as well, and she drove me, bright and early, to the surgical center to face what for me, is the absolute worst thing in the world.  Not the gutting of my nut sack and subsequent hacking of my testicle, mind you, but rather the worst two letter initialism in the English language for my money:

I.V.

Now to be clear; if you have never had an I.V. put in you, I want to reassure you that it is not that bad (for you.)  It can be a little bit painful when they first put the needle in, but after that you have nothing to fear, it's a common, simple procedure that experts do every day and I assure you it will be just fine (for you.)

You see, amidst all the other crazy I got going on in my head (we all got our own,) there is this really freaky fear of veins.  I'm not afraid of needles; shots do not deter me in the least, even after having experienced botched bone marrow samples (but that is a tale for another time O gentle readers.)  You can come at me with the biggest needle ya got and I won't flinch.  Well okay, I'll flinch, I guess; that's just a autonomic reaction to pain, but you know what I mean.

No, what bothers me is the veins themselves.  My veins, other peoples' veins, you name it.  But especially my veins.  When I tell most medical professionals this, they assume it is the result of traumatic experiences during the thousands of venipunctures I've received as part of years of kidney disease, (and boy howdy have I had me some traumatic experiences,) but no; I've always been like this.  I don't like looking at veins, thinking about veins, and most particularly having blood drawn from my veins.  It's not the pain, it's the psychological torture of being made aware of them.  Every simple blood draw is a nightmare for me, but I man up and bear it as necessary.

Oh also?  When I get stressed, my veins tend to 'vanish.'  Neat, huh?  That detail will be important later in this story.  In addition, before you go to have blood drawn, they advise you to drink plenty of water, to make sure your veins are topped up and juicy.  Unless you are having general anesthesia, of course, when they tell you not drink at all after midnight, so that my veins were desiccated and barren like the Gobi desert.  Just throwin' that out there before we begin.

So the first thing you have to do when you are going under general anesthetic for surgery is to get an I.V. installed.  I was aware that would be the only had part, since I was going to be knocked the Hell out during the actual ball-hacking, and I would be doped to the gills afterward.  So the only tough part was going to be experiencing an I.V. one more time.  This of course, was not my first rodeo, so I was telling myself that I've done this, and that this is nothing, and I got this, you da man, you so money, etc.

By the way, people who don't have phobias or compulsions or things like that always try to use logic to calm you about things like this.  For you mentally healthy people, please remember that these feelings are not based in logic, and so doing this just makes it seem like you think that we are stupid, and simply never thought about these things before.  Don't do that.  We aren't stupid, we're crazy, so shut up.

But the point is that I knew the I.V. was going to be unpleasant, and I was fully prepared to face that.

I was wrong.  The (multiple attempts at) installation of an intravenous line in my arm for purposes of anesthesia on this day was the single worst phlebotomical experience of a life filled with such traumas.

Let me tell you about it, shall I?

To begin, there were a pair of chatty nurses who were taking turns to help me out with paperwork, and getting my gown on and so forth.  These were not vapid neophytes; these were mature, seasoned veterans, who clearly knew what they were about, and made me feel at ease.  The first nurse, let's call her Pam, because after the horrors that followed there's no way I can remember her real name, volunteered to do the I.V. like it weren't no thang, so I simply relaxed and prepared to bear this small painful necessity.

She failed.

Her initial target, after many long, harrowing minutes of tapping and thumping my arm like a melon of dubious ripeness (if you, too have a dislike of venipuncture, you may be familiar with how unpleasant this particular experience can be,) had been my ample forearm, where she averred a vein of the appropriate constitution laired, and could easily be accessed by needle.

And yet her probing was for nought, as my elusive vein dove away from her, like Jaws dragging down all three barrels.  After several attempts in the forearm region, she abandoned the search, and turned it over to her fellow nurse, whom we shall call Amy, because I don't care for that name much, either.

Amy's specialty, I was assured, was the back of the hand, which experienced hospital visitors will recognize as one of the more common I.V. locations, and one of the potentially more painful.  But I was prepared for that, and even though the several sticks that Pam had attempted had raised my freak out o meter by several degrees, I remained game for having the I.V. installed so this whole experience could be concluded.

And so, after another lengthy round of flicking, tapping and thumping my veins, she hit pay dirt and declared that a vein had been found to rival that of Sutter's Mill, 1849.  The area was blasted with freezing spray to numb it (ha!) and once more unto the breach went the needle.

Obviously I don't need to tell you all of her attempts failed, and obviously I don't need to tell you that it hurt.  It might interest you as it did me to hear that she claimed my vein 'exploded' rather than went away, which led me to assume she and I watch different kinds of movies, given the obvious disparity in our definitions of the word 'explode.'

Now 0 for 2, Team Stabby decided to call for backup, and fetched thither a third nurse in scrubs of a different color, which all video game players will recognize marked her as a higher rank (she probably had more hit points and a ranged attack as well, but it didn't come up.)

This nurse, whom we shall name Bambi, was apparently the elite vampiress of the coven, and would have no difficulty in tapping me like a keg of Coors at a frat party.

Her specialty was the wrist.  Now, I need to tell you that, amidst my vein phobia, the wrist has a special place of horror and dread.  I cannot watch any scene involving someone slitting wrists, and even the mere sight of a wrist can freak me out.  There were times in high school when I would have 'attacks' of freaked-outedness that caused me to have to put down my pencil and stuff my hands in my armpits out of fear of looking at them (crazy, remember?)

But I've overcome most of that, and no longer lose my cool in such a manner (much,) and as I said, this is not my first rodeo (or fourth, or fifth…)  So I've had to endure venipuncture in my wrist before, and even though it suuuuuuuuuuucks, at least I knew that finally, finally the ordeal would be over and at last the I.V. would be in and done.

O precious reader of mine, you who have travelled with me on this journey so far must surely know by now that this could not be the ending?  Can not we both see that although Bambi gave it her best shot, attempting to distract me by asking me what I teach etc, and thus forcing me to repeat my answers to the same questions each of her predecessors had plied me with, and armed with yet another blast of "Mr. Freeze In A Can" that she too, failed?

Of course we know that his is what happened.  And I simply looked off and tried to picture the smiling faces of my beautiful children, trying to ignore how frantic they sounded about quickly getting some gauze on my wrist quickly because la la la la quickly blood la la la la.

I do not like veins.

At last, as I was trying to convince them all that I did not need anesthesia this badly, and that if they could simply provide me with a wallet to bite down on, we could simply progress to the less stressful phase of cutting into my scrotum and slicing away parts of my testicles, they called for the final nurse, who shall be called Deena, because that was her name, and was the only individual whose name is worth remembering, because she got it done.

Deena was one of the actual anesthesiology nurses, who would actually be in the room where the unkindest cut of all would take place.  And if you find yourself in such a situation, ask for her FIRST.  Deena did not mess around with distracting questions, she went right for my veins probing with her finger until she found a vein…in my forearm.

"See?" said Pam, "I thought that one would work."

Fucking Pam.

So, without much further ado (and to be honest, I was pretty near passing out at this point, so I can't give an accurate assessment of the total amount of ado utilized,) she declared that the I.V. was in, and the rest of my bad day could begin.

God bless Deena and her people, is what I'm saying.

So now the fucking I.V. was in, and the lady with the magic needle could finally send me to the better place I had been so longing to visit.  The oblivion I had craved for the past hour was finally nigh, and they let my wife in to see me before I slipped away int the Dreamtime (by the way, any lies she tries to tell you that I was on the brink of tears and feeling more vulnerable than ever before are complete lies.  She lies a lot about stuff like that, even though she knows I have allergies, the liar.)

So Kim came in and took my glasses, and they wheeled me away down the hall, as the edges of my vision began growing dim.  I don't even know what room they brought me to, because I was OUT before we got to the end of the hallway.  And my last thought was relief, as I knew the worst part of the whole ordeal was finally over.

And now I want to talk to you about testicles.  For those of you who have these (frankly poorly-designed) structures, you will be well aware of the following information, but for that segment of the population lacking said appendages, there are some key facts about them that are crucial knowledge before reading any further.

Balls are not like other parts of your body.  They do not hurt in the same way as other body parts.  If you get, let's say, punched in the arm, there will be some pain upon the impact, and then there will be some soreness and bruising afterwards.  This is, no doubt, an experience with which most of us are familiar.

But testicular pain is a different creature.  Think of a headache.  You know how you can get a tension headache, and it throbs and radiates from within your head?  But if you bang your head on something, that also hurts, but in a completely different way.  The bruise on your noggin stops hurting comparatively quickly, and you can make it feel better with ice, or by simply mot poking it.  But that tension headache seems indomitable, and just really ruins your whole day.

That's what balls are like.

When a man gets hurt in the nuts (and it doesn't take a great deal of force, see Eddie Murphy's magnum opus, "Raw" for a more erudite discussion of the modicum of force required thus to injure nuts,) it's not like banging your head, it's like a really bad tension headache.  With nausea.  And sometimes crying.  And it doesn't just hurt the actual nuts themselves; it reaches up into your kidneys, radiating pain to the entire area, causing that hunched over effect that Hollywood finds so funny.

So now perhaps you will understand why I say that I was wrong about the worst part of this procedure.  For those of you who have felt the pain of being stuck in the testicles, you may be wondering how that reflects upon the feeling of having those testicles sliced into with a scalpel.

And I will tell you; it's much much worse.  It's like having your nuts kicked in slow motion, and it is not fun.  Sadly, I could give you the perfect comparison to explain how it feels if you had ever had a large cyst in your kidney burst.  The pain is very much like that, but since most of you (and be very thankful for this,) have never nor will never experience this particular pain, the point is moot.  For you ladies who may have had the misfortune of having an ovarian cyst burst, I am told the effects are similar, but located largely in your lower back.

So here's the thing:  When you wake up from the anesthesia (which makes you unaware of feeling anything,) you aren't on any pain killers (which make you not feel as much pain.)  So there is a 'warming up period' where you are still groggy from the anesthesia so that you can't express yourself well, or truly understand how you could have so offended God that he would allow this to happen to you, but not yet taken into the loving arms of painkillers, for which you would gladly forsake all faith.

This period is referred to as 'recovery,' although at the time I simply called it "Aaarrrrrrgggghhhhhh-whimper"  And as I recall, this lasted roughly eighteen hours, although my lying wife claims it was only two.  She also claims that I experienced something called "post anesthesia delirium," and was so (ahem) "batshit wacko" (sic) that they had to further sedate me above and beyond the normal amount just to keep me from wrecking up the place.  But as we've established previously, she lies about stuff like that.

Finally, I was given unto the sweet release of my old buddy, Oxycontin (I love you, man!)  I can see in my mind, as if it happened to someone else (someone uglier I hope, because surely I don't look like that, do I?) me getting into the car, and my wife driving me home as I faded in and out of consciousness along the way.  Once home I hobbled (naturally,) into the house and collapsed as slowly and delicately as possible into my bed, from which I did not stir for one and one half millennia, as my memory makes it to be.

I have since recovered rational function, and as long as I make my regular appointments with Dr. Contin, I can still move around as necessary.  I tell myself that this was all for the best, as having a regular, human-sized scrotum will be worth it, once the swelling goes down.

I have not looked at the affected area yet, for fear of the horrific bruising that has no doubt appeared by now, preferring instead to look away when urinating (which my wife snarkily claims must be my usual modus operandi, but what does she know?)

It is my hope that this whole experience will soon fade from memory (Dr. Contin's working on that as well,) and I can return to a normal life, the life of a regular-scrotumed man.  I hope soon I can forget the pain, discomfort, and ignominy and look forward instead to when next I am asked "how they hanging?"

"Reticulated, friend," I shall answer with pride, "reticulated."

On Annuality

So one year ago today I started this humble blog.  I was motivated to do so out of a sense of obligation; since the written genius of my Facebook posts was reaching far too small of an audience, leaving the teeming multitudes of humanity deprived of my scintillating wit.

Humble, like I said.

But in addition, I thought it would be a good exercise in 'writing discipline.'  I have plenty of story ideas, but all too rarely make the time to write them down.  So I made myself a challenge: I would publicly declare my intentions to update the blog as close to daily as possible, without resorting to simply reposting stuff I had already written on Facebook or elsewhere.  If I could do that for a month straight, I figured it would help me develop good habits for writing a little bit every day.

And it actually worked, in the beginning.  For over two months, I made a post every single day.  Honest, you can check it out; a post every single day, all the way into March.  They weren't all winners, but that is to be expected, and none of them were phoned in.  I kept up that pace until I broke my toe which made me stumble (heh,) and miss a day.  Even after that, I was blogging several times a week.  I think that's pretty good.

But what also made me proud of myself was how many of the posts were short stories.  It felt good to use fiction to express my ideas, and this seems like good exercise indeed.  True to my goals, in the early days of the project I also wrote several short stories for submission, and laid the groundworks for a few longer works I hope to develop fully in the future.

A few months after I started this blog, I even started a second one, devoted to my hobby of modifying and painting minis.  I was doing well, posting my thoughts in two separate blogs and feeling more confident about my writing than ever before.

And all that love lasted right about till August.  That's when school started again this year, and I went back to work.  Now, the previous year I had no trouble keeping up with the entries during school, but this year my schedule changed, and I found myself teaching two brand new courses.  Everything had changed from the last time I taught core classes (I'd been teaching Drama and World Literature for like ten years, and baby, I had that shit down tight.)  I'm one of those control freaks who needs to make his own stuff, rather than just use lessons someone else has designed.  But I had finally amassed nearly all the lessons I needed, other than a little tweaking and experimentation every year (you know how it is.)

But this new schedule?  It had me ragged.  Add to that a little girl starting kindergarten, meaning two kids going to separate locations each morning and afternoon, and ti-i-i-i-ime was no longer on my side. All of a sudden I was scrambling for lesson plans every morning and making panicked photocopies just before the bell.  What's worse, because that aforementioned kindergartener has to be picked up from aftercare before 4 p.m., I can generally never stay after school later than 3:30.  This means every minute at school is precious, and that seriously limits my writing time.

And brother you can see the effect by looking at my list of posts.  Right as the new school year begins, there is a precipitous drop in the frequency.  I was lucky to get out a post every two weeks, and frequently less than that.  I'm no less proud of the actual posts I produced, but I do wish there had been more.  In addition, there were numerous posts begun, but never finished simply because I couldn't make the ideas 'gel.'  So my post list shows them as sad little drafts, waiting for their day in the sun.

I fell off the wagon a bit, even over the holiday break, when there was more time for writing.  But now I am dedicating myself to writing more.  I'm going to make more time for writing, both for my blogs and other stories.

And that's where you come in.  Those of you who have read this blog over the course of the past year have provided me with that most invaluable of assets available to a writer; an audience.

Without an audience, there is almost no impetus to write.  Artists are egotists by nature, and this is how it should be.  Only someone who feels what he has to say is worth the time of others to read (and therefore an improvement on their own internal thoughts,) has any reason to write.  And there has never been a greater gift to the self absorbed than the internet.  We live in the Golden Age of Narcissism, and while my awe-inspiring humility makes me immune to the vapid lure of Twitter, Instagram and endless badly-composed selfies (hold the fucking phone upright, ladies!) I am nonetheless susceptible to the siren call of the hit counter on the blog.

Knowing that someone out there has read, and even more importantly, felt the need to share what I have written is beyond gratifying, it's what keeps me writing, and prevents me from just collapsing inward, all my words and ideas forming a singularity, from which not even hope can escape, and the event horizon of which is formed by an accretion disk of black depression and nihilistic thoughts of self-abandonment.

So, thanks for reading, I guess is what I'm trying to say.

Ye Beauty Standard

“Have you seen the new portrait of the Queen?” 

Catherine stormed into the chamber, her brocade dress swirling behind her.

The noise startled Thomas, causing a drop of ink to fall from his quill and form an ugly blot on the parchment upon which he was writing.   Looking up in irritation, he saw the vehement look upon his wife’s face that meant she had again found some fault with the way of the world.  “Oh here we go again…”

“I’m serious!  It’s outrageous how they manipulate the picture, painting her skin as flawless and white, and at her age!”

“Come on, she’s the Queen, for Jesu’s sake; of course they are going to make her look as good as possible.”

“But it’s not what she really looks like!”

Thomas sighed, gently sprinkling sand upon the inkblot.  “So what?  Maybe it’s how she wishes she looked.  How is that bad?”

“Because it isn’t fair.”

Thomas paused over the parchment, poised to blow away the excess sand. “What?  To whom?”

“To women.”

A moment passed.  Thomas set down his scroll and turned to face his wife.  “Prithee explain to me,” he began in his most infuriatingly calm and patient voice, “how one woman’s portrait can be unfair to other women.”

“It establishes an unrealistic and unachievable standard of beauty.”

“A what now?”

Catherine rolled her eyes, feigning impatience as she gleefully launched into her explanation.  “By modifying the physical image of the queen; removing blemishes, adjusting features to be more desirable, lightening skin tones and the like, they hold her up as the standard by which other women shall be judged.”

“What do you mean?  It’s just a picture of Queen Elizabeth, how can it even affect other women?”

“Don’t you see?  She’s a celebrity.  As an important female public figure, strewth, as the most important female public figure, she becomes a role model for all women.  Women see her, and the very fact of her wealth, power and especially fame establish that whatever she is doing, that is the right way to do it.  She is the model for a successful life.  And that includes her appearance.”

“Soooo… you’re saying women want to look like the queen?  What’s wrong with that?”

“Because they can’t!  By painting her to be flawless, it makes women who see those paintings think that they are supposed to look like that, and they can never look that way in real life.”

“So those women won’t look as good as the Queen, so what?  They can still be as beautiful as other, regular women.  Isn’t that enough?”

“It isn’t just the flawless face, there are many other aspects to body image.”

“Body image?” asked Thomas.

“It’s a term I just made up,” she said in her best intellectual tone.  “It refers to the way people, mainly women, see themselves.”

“You mean like in a mirror?”

Another long sigh.  “No, I mean how women perceive their own appearance when compared to the women they see around them.  And when they do not match up with what they see in those women, their sense of worth suffers.”

“But didn’t the good Lord make each woman unique?  Why should it matter that a woman cannot look exactly like another?”

“It’s not about looking just like another woman, it’s about society establishing a set of parameters of what constitutes beauty.  And when that standard is unattainable, it guarantees that women will be miserable.”

“But soft, you claim that this ‘standard of beauty’ of yours is unattainable.  Thus by your argument, no woman could ever be considered beautiful.”  Thomas smiled at his own cleverness.

“That is only because the painters make the standard unattainable by altering their subjects’ appearances.  Women compare themselves to the paintings and are always found wanting.”

“It sounds to me like it’s the women who have the problem, not the painters.”

Catherine put her hands on her hips and gave a disgusted bark of exhaled air.  “Of course you would say that, you are a man!”

“Hey, we men have to look at portraits too, and I don’t hear you complaining about the terrible burden it places upon us.”

“Oh it’s not the same for men,” she insisted, waving her hand dismissively.

But now Thomas had found his angle for engaging her in this dialog, and he was determined to have some fun with it.  “Oh but it is!  Why just the other day I saw a portrait of Sir Walter Raleigh and thought to myself, ‘Oh how I wish my own goatee could curl so.’  But since it couldn’t I ran home and cried while eating an entire tray of sweetmeats.”

“It isn’t funny.  Men never realize how important physical appearance is to a woman.  A man gains a wife by being successful in business, but a woman can’t simply work harder to attract a good husband, she has to rely on her beauty.  I mean, if women were allowed to work for a living on equal footing with men, I’m sure such obsession with beauty would disappear, but as long as a woman must rely upon her appearance to acquire a husband, this need to meet impossible standards of beauty will continue to work against women, young and old, and drive them to such desperate states that they will surely endanger their health!”

Thomas smiled in his most infuriatingly indulgent manner.  “Peace, good wife, you are being too dramatic; I’m sure the situation is not so dire as all that.”

“Think you so?  Have you seen that new continental painter, Reubens?”

Thomas’s smile faltered, and he turned back to his writing.

“Ah, so you are familiar with how he paints his women then?  They are all full-figured, voluptuous and bedight in curves.”

“So?” began Thomas somewhat defensively, “there’s no crime in portraying women as beautiful and desirable.”

“There is when young women cannot hope to look like that!  Those models are paid to look that way, and they can afford to spend all day at the dining hall maintaining their figures.  But what about the regular girls?  They are far too poor to eat enough to look like that.  But they will spend all their time and money trying to stuff themselves, just to try and fit some ridiculous ideal of beauty.  And that’s not even mentioning the clothes…”

“Ay, me, let us not,” groaned Thomas.  “What would you suggest then?  Ban corsets?  Paint everyone with the pox?  Perhaps in future all women could be painted as simple stick figures, and merely labeled?”

Catherine sighed, and gazed wistfully out the window.  “No, I just wish that, in the future, there could be some way to capture images without the bias of a painter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Imagine a device that could capture the actual picture of a person, not one person’s impression of what they see, but the actual physical image, captured forever in perfect detail.”

Thomas was thoughtful for a moment.  “Forsooth, that’s not a bad idea.  Such a device could just take in light and capture a picture exactly as people see it.  There would be no individual interpretation on the part of the artist, merely the stark truth, showing exactly how a person looks.”

“Exactly!” She laughed in triumph.

“It would show every blemish, every spot, every tiny wrinkle at the corners of the eyes, and preserve the true beauty of every woman.”

“Oh I don’t know,” mused Catherine.  “Perhaps one could always correct a few flaws in such pictures.”