My new favorite past time, particularly when relaxing after work or lying down for bed, is to induce a fury of itchiness upon myself, then flail about the room trying to make it stop.
The only way this sensation can be adequately described is...oh, I don’t know...four million fire ants burrowing under my skin. And when I launch into itch mode, all sharp objects must be locked away, because scraping my skin off with a potato peeler would be infinitely more pleasant than the vileness of the itch.
At first it wasn’t so bad. The itch—while still incredibly intense—was generally confined to a particular area. Usually a thigh or arm, occasionally the top of a foot. It was manageable. I could handle the scratching on my own, or in times of desperation, solicit Rey to help me scratch that portion of my body until it bled. Things were simple back then.
Too simple for me to bear, so I started getting creative. Suddenly, I found myself itching only on portions of my body that were touching a certain object. Like a couch, or a shirt, or a bed. That’s all fine and dandy, right? Makes things simple, right? Wrong! As soon as I’d stop touching that object, I’d stop itching.
So for instance, I come home after a long day’s work, throw on my robe, grab a beer and sit down on the couch to enjoy an episode of Deadliest Catch. Suddenly, dunnah nunnah nunnah, I begin to severely itch on every portion of my body that’s touching the mother fuckin’ couch.
I jump up to scratch; I don’t itch. I sit back down; I itch. I jump up; I don’t itch. The end game is me standing in the middle of the room, or sitting on the floor, “because the couch makes the fire ants living under my skin mad.” It’s crazy. I’m crazy!
I won’t even tell you about the time I had to clothe myself from head to toe and lay towels on my side of the bed because the sheets were itchy.
Excuse me, I think I hear the fire ants marching in...