As far as moles go, I don't have a tremendous number, but I've had one that is rather prominent in locus, if not in dimension. One small brown mole has been on the apple of my right cheek since I can remember, and it's always been flat, only slightly darker than my skin, and mercifully free of spirals of black evil hair flapping in the wind. I generally have good skin, and a light layer of foundation diminishes even this minimal appearance. I rather fancy the mole may go unnoticed by friends, acquaintances and toll booth clerks as they are transfixed on my captivating eyes, my heaving bosom or my soul patch of dark hair that happy trails on down below my bottom lip.
About a year ago, I noticed something peripherally sitting on my cheek, and I reached up to brush it away, only to find it was attached to me. This mole turned out to be a sleeper cell, finally rearing its ugly head after nearly two fifths of a century had elapsed. My attitude on my moles is much like the fighting philosophy of the ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal - one of the most ferocious creatures in the universe, and the stupidest: if it can't see you, it reckons you can't see it, and will not attack you, thus the intergalactic hitchhiker must carry a towel to cover the beast's head so it will remain docile. Anyhoo, if I can't see a mole, it doesn't exist.
I'm not particularly fond of this mole, but if it had remained flat and smooth, I would never have interfered with it. However, about a month ago I noticed the texture had changed dramatically, in addition to jutting up like Ayer's rock above the plains of the Outback. This was not bad enough. The mole, she slap me lak zees wees 'er glove, and shallenge me to a duel. A molelet had erupted and sat flipping me off in the mirror. So, I brought it.
Today I went to visit my world-renowned dermatologist, Dr. Alan Menter. He's so amazing that he always has young interns like ducklings trailing around after him eager to learn from his vast knowlege. This must be why his examination rooms are so large.
I prepared for this insanely early 8am appointment, and got my shit together. I checked my look in the mirror, and reasoned I don't need make-up - I look much younger than most women my age - Dr. Menter will prolly even compliment me on how great my skin looks in comparison to others. Lookin' Good! Feelin' Good!
I get there, and the Dr strides in, followed by a new batch of young doctors apparently culled from a Banana Republic catalog. Smug gits! Dr was so focused and serious that my comment that my twin was erupting on my cheek falls utterly flat. Ho hum. I described my problem, and he looked through a magnifying glass at the offending growth, and proceeded to talk about my "crusty mole" to the young men, repeatedly mentioning the "crusty mole," as if anyone might not have heard the first 40 or 50 times. By the way - did I mention I have a "Crusty mole?" This was not enough, he insisted they all take a look through the magnifying glass and when that carnival of horrors was over, he insisted they step right up and cop a feel. Yes. My "crusty mole" has been felt up by hot young doctors. I'll bet they'll be fantasizing about this for weeks, seriously. [There must be a porn fetish site devoted to petting crusty moles, but I digress.] So, I feel like I'm sorta not in the room, and this bitch on my cheek is getting all the attention. I finally got to axe a question, and I asked if this thing will get bigger, and if it will keep tossing out appendages. He said yes, most likely it would get larger, and most likely the little tags would continue to erupt. Dr grabbed a metal cylinder thermos-thingie and asked if I want to keep the mole, or if I'd like to freeze it off--after all I would have a scabby sort of thing on my cheek just in time for Christmas. I asked if it would leave a scar and he said no, so I said "we're definitely removing it today." So he zapped the little devil right then and there and I'm waiting for it to turn black and fall off.

Arthur O'Shaughnessy. 1844–1881

Ode

WE are the music-makers,
And we are the dreamers of dreams,
Wandering by lone sea-breakers,
And sitting by desolate streams;
World-losers and world-forsakers,
On whom the pale moon gleams:
Yet we are the movers and shakers
Of the world for ever, it seems.

With wonderful deathless ditties
We build up the world's great cities,
And out of a fabulous story
We fashion an empire's glory:
One man with a dream, at pleasure,
Shall go forth and conquer a crown;
And three with a new song's measure
Can trample an empire down.

We, in the ages lying
In the buried past of the earth,
Built Nineveh with our sighing,
And Babel itself with our mirth;
And o'erthrew them with prophesying
To the old of the new world's worth;
For each age is a dream that is dying,
Or one that is coming to birth.