After mowing the lawn, the garage needed a paint job. 

It was while painting that I discovered a mole on my forearm had turned to a shade of deep brown. I snapped a picture of it and sent it to GPT, which said I needed a topical OTC to treat skin inflammation. The second I applied it, the mole expanded, blossoming like a dahlia. 

I went to urgent care and the doctor laughed, saying that what GPT had recommended was used for vaginal yeast infections. She looked me in the eye and told me, “You do not have a vagina.” I pictured her telling everyone she knew about this—her colleagues on break, family at dinner and friends over drinks. 

“Must’ve been a hallucination,” I muttered, glancing up at her.