Itchy
I got bit or stung by some insect on my ankle yesterday, while jogging with my dog. It stung like a - excuse me, but I believe the term is motherfucker – so I stopped several times to look at it, but didn’t find (and still have not found) any offending stinger.

So I still don’t know what the hell insect it was that was able to scale my shoe while I jogged along with Otis, but ever since, it’s been at least as itchy as my worst-ever case of poison ivy – the one when I was seventeen and looked like swamp thing for two months.

It’s not poison ivy, though. It can’t be, unless said-insect of such marvelous gymnastic ability also had poison ivy-juice in its little sharp jaws. That would be the perfect venom, actually. Perfectly evil.

And I was smart enough, stumbling out of bed at 4:30 this morning, to wear my Mary-Janes today – whose strap rubs riiiiiight up neeext to the edge of this beautiful red welt on my ankle. Maybe this is a test from the gods in self-restraint. OmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmOh, fuck!