The fourth of July left me lonely and covered in bug bites, like I sprouted fifty-seven fat, red nipples in the most inconvenient areas of my body, including my forehead and six of my toes. I looked amazing. Every time I stepped onto my rug I would fist up my toes and scratch them along the shag and breathe. Simple pleasures, really. Itch fulfillment and drippy air-conditioning window units propped up on rocks. And a new ceiling fan, one that doesn't spin like a renegade hula hoop. You know, for kids. Now the itching is all gone, but those fucking red bumps are still there, and I wish they itched with the same ferocity of the Tuesday-era bug bites.
Remember the good old days, like last Tuesday? When you paid the price for fun with uncomfortable tingling, but you could vanquish the fuck out of it with a scrape? Because you're a fighter, and you don't take no crap out of nobody. Mosquitoes are fucking loitering hooligans, but they can't scare me. I wear my weekend festivities on my forehead, and everyone knew I spent a warm night outside and my only regret was a lack of bug spray.
Sure, everyone probably spent a warm night outside that weekend. Let me have my pride.
I tried scratching my toes on the carpet this morning just for shits, but without satisfying an itch, just barely quieting feeble memories of last Tuesday when I could still feel them. I miss it, oddly. As annoying and uncomfortable as those bug bites were, I preferred having the itch to not.
day 25 - a song that makes you laugh