The death of the Great Beast

A thing appeared on my lip several weeks ago.  It was ugly and annoying, but it didn't hurt or itch, so I ignored it and waited for it to go away.  It looked like a giant whitehead, but I knew it couldn't be, because:
A.  It appeared out of nowhere, fully formed, didn't build up like a pimple would.
B.  It didn't hurt.
C.  It didn't pop when I stuck a needle in it and squeezed it.
D.  I've never gotten one on my lip.
E.  It stayed there unchanging for several weeks.
F.  I've been through puberty. I know what zits look like.  This is not my first rodeo.
I assume it's some kind of cyst of something.  I briefly consider cancer before dismissing it.  A few days before I was going to be leading worship by myself, I decided to send a picture of it to my doctor and ask him about removing it, because nobody would be able to enter into worship with that hideous thing bobbing along on my lip.  

Meanwhile, Mike examined it and declared, "That's a whitehead. It needs popped."  He takes what I consider to be an unusual amount of satisfaction in popping whiteheads.  Sarah, freshly home from college, agreed and offered this insight: "You've been feeding it by putting Vaseline on your lips." I presented the above-outlined arguments to them about how it can't possibly be that, but Mike was pretty sure of his diagnosis, so I submitted to his wisdom and treatment plan.  He came at me with the tweezers, and...well, in the interest of not reliving the trauma (which involved fluids of various types and colors, lots of tears, several attempts over several days, other gory details), let's just say he was right.  

I suggested to Sarah that if she gets married she should find a man who will pop her zits, and she confidently replied, "I can pop my own zits." Yes, I used to think the same thing, but that was before I met the Menopause Zit, which is an entirely different creature.

As I was in the recovery room with ice on my lip and a bloody towel next to me, I had the horrifying realization that I had sent a picture of a pimple to my doctor.  I deleted it and hoped he would never see it, but no, it had already been sent.  This morning I got his response, asking me questions about it.  I said, "It's been resolved.  Thanks for responding.  Can you please delete that picture and pretend we never had this conversation?"