I'm standing in the doctor's office, my shirt raised.

The dermatologist is examining my moles when the medical assistant bursts out laughing.

He turns to her. "What," he asks. I'm standing there, my top still up.

"I'm going to pull this thing down," I say. "I feel like I'm at Mardi Gras."

Another round of laughter. I'm killing.

"Look at what she wrote," the assistant says, holding up the patient history form.

Do you tan?
No.

Are you pregnant or plan to become pregnant?
No.

Do you smoke?
When I'm very drunk.