Friday, May 18, 2007


First off, I'm in Dover, DE. It's not the look. And Dover Downs is definitely not the look. I think it is were most people here go to die. Anyway, I complain too much, because the nice rent-a-car drive out here with A.R. and our couple of meetings have been a great work reprieve.

But that is not why I write this morning. I write because all week now I have had the worst case of itchy ass. As in my butthole itches. Not all the time, mind you, but enough to make it hard to handle. This feeling reminds me of our college senior-year roommate, Doug, a muscle-kid/hippie who moved in from Wisconsin after the ex and his mistress took flight from our seven-member den of depravity. Doug immediately set up his basement bedroom to blow glass, which he would take breaks from to swallow one of his dozens of vitamins. When he took breaks from those rituals, he would stroll around the apartment shirtless, his thick chest hair well manscaped, and complain of his itchy ass.

This would, as always, turn me into complete hysterics. He, of course, would look at my very, very seriously and say: "It's really not funny. I have had itchy ass my whole life, and there is no cure." Queue more laughing.

All this is to say I hope I don't have whatever incurable case of itchy ass Doug had. And if so, F* you karma.

Ew, ew, ew. Now, let me tell you a story.

Once, I saw a commercial for athlete's foot, and my feet burned for the rest of the day.

Then another time, I heard someone talk about restless leg syndrome, and my legs were twitchy for the rest of the weekend.

And still another time I watched a movie about a woman who didn't know she was pregnant until she went into labor, and I walked around for the next month CONVINCED that I was a mommy-to-be.

You bastard, you better PRAY that your condition doesn't psycho-somatically transfer itself over here. Because that might be the worst birthday present EVER.
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