April Thirty: Diseased

I have a friend who is constantly holed up in his bedroom with his Les Paul and at least an ounce or marijuana. He always tells me he’s not in the right head space to play an open mic, or to hang out, or go meet women, or whatever I’m trying to talk him into doing. It’s a shame too because he’s the Goods and I love spending time with him. The worst part of him being a recluse is that he fucking wastes a lot of that quality alone time doing nothing productive besides marathon porn sessions on Adderall (solidarity, buddy!), which only produce semen stains. “I’m not like Kurt or Elliot, man.” He says. “I can’t create when I’m feeling down.”

And neither can I. I’m feeling really fucking down because I have scabies. I haven’t done shit for the past week but itch and worry about who I’ve infected. I have a bona fide fear of parasites and now they are all over my body. There’s one who ate, laid eggs, and shit a trail across the underside of my dick. It’s like the trail of tears only with dead dick skin instead of dead Indians. It hurts to beat off but I did anyway because I stumbled upon a good teen collection and couldn’t help myself. The whole thing hurt and didn’t feel good at really any point. Even busting sucked. All it did was make the area around my urethra angry – with that kind of anger that begets a grudge. Nights have been the worst. That’s when the fuckers get warm and decide to start moving around or something. My arm pits, legs, ass crack, all itching in unison like some insanity-inducing orchestra. The physical equivalent of Captain Beefheart leading the London Symphony in your bedroom while you’re trying to sleep. One .38 Wadcutter could fix this. Deprive these fuckers of everything. No, I wouldn’t go that far but the idea seems sane enough in this midst of sleep deprivation and constant itching. I went to my Mexican doctor and he gave me some pesticide with instructions to cover every inch of my body with it. I took a scalding hot bath, dried off and did just as he said. Then, after two days and seemingly no improvement, I decided to see what people on the internet were saying about scabies. This was a huge mistake. This fucking website topix.com has forums loaded with poor bastards who have had scabies for 8 months and have tried every cure known to man and have given it to their whole families who now resent them and shit. The fact that permethrin-resistant mites even exist has thoroughly fucked with my head.

I went to the house of my former girlfriend and told her I have body lice. I thought that sounded nicer than scabies and I wanted to avoid the sexually transmitted connotation. She, of course, accused me of getting it from a women. I think it came from sleeping on the floors of dirty hotels with my own blanket, then throwing it in the back of a truck and taking it home and using it in my bed. At no point did I ever think to wash it. In retrospect, it was sickeningly ignorant behavior. I made her wash all of her bedding and clothes and stripped her down naked so I could cover her body with the permethrin 5% lotion, which gave me a good stiffy. I did her asshole last because she is ticklish down there and told me to skip it altogether. That wasn’t going to happen. If your whole body is a toxic dump for parasites except your asshole, they will hide out in it like a fallout shelter. I did the thing that doctors do to kids when they give them injections; “on three, okay? One…tw”BAM! Hand full of cream in your asshole. She yelped and it made me laugh. I checked her for spots but I didn’t really see any. She said she itches so I know she’s got it. I’m hoping to kill the little cunts before they cause her any real pain. I still love her.

There’s a lot more I could write but I’m going to have a panic attack if I do. Plus, there’s a new barista at the cafe with a VERY petite body, cute face, and a mouth full of braces. God shits in my mouth then smiles at me briefly.

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