I woke up on a typically dreary Monday morning feeling the appropriate levels of pain, misery, dread and contempt for my fellow man. I did somehow manage to drag my barely animated, zombified carcass into the office though.

It was sometime after lunch that I first spotted it’s gloom inducing little shape. Sitting there on the back of my hand like a harbinger of coffin dodging, near perpetual post office visits and smelling of pee. A small, pale, brown, nasty little liver spot. Wow. Fan-fricking-tastic. The sour little cherry on the wretchedness pie.

I studied it all day. I thought about the passing of time, the ending of days, the never ending rolling of human wheels, my mortality, my nothingness in the infinite embrace of time and space.

Powering down the life of my laptop I was struck by the symbolism of the event and took one more look at that damned liver spot of doom on the back of my ever-so-slowly crumbling hand.

Wait.

Something wasn’t right. The spot shimmered ever so lightly. Tentatively I raised it to my eye, nose, mouth. Took a quick lick.
Ah.
It was actually a small, round, splodge of melted chocolate.

It tasted pretty good.