“I am suffering untold miseries.”
This is what I said to the cute little pharmacy guy, moments before I bared my leg to his unsuspecting gaze.
It’s not called Mildly Annoying Ivy. Not called Slightly Itchy Ivy.
From the fangs of Satan, himself.
Poison Ivy turns your life into a Gauntlet of Gore. A Pestilence of Pus. An Obnoxiousness of Ooze. An Itchiness of Insanity. I could go on.
I have it on my knees. Both of them. And there are now some suspicious looking itchy spots on my arms that I am hoping are just fly bites. Fly bites are a mild tooth ache compared to the root canal of poison ivy.
It’s on the inside of my knees, so when I walk, it itches. When I wear pants, it itches. When I breathe, it itches.
My Love… a veteran of Satan’s fangs, himself… keeps saying, with the deepest sympathy: “You’ve got it between your legs.”
“It’s on my KNEES, dammit! IT’S NOT BETWEEN MY LEGS!”
He chuckles. What a funny guy.
“IT’S ON MY FUCKING KNEES, I TELL YOU!”
I sleep with the wiener curled up against my stomach… not my Love’s wiener. He’s keeping that as far away from my oozing wounds as possible… Jeepy Jeep, the Wonder Wiener, sleeps beside me and at one point last night he put his little wienery snout on my knee.
…There is nothing wrong with rubbing a wiener violently against your leg, making groaning noises and weeping a little. Don’t judge, until you have had the Pestilence of Pus devouring your flesh like the burning fires of a witch’s fingers with the only satisfaction being to excoriate your skin with whatever comes to hand.
It spreads, the poison. It spreads and blossoms across your meagre flesh, leaving a trail of blisters the itch of which can only be eased by nails, sandpaper or a rusty saw.
I can’t wear pants, because of the itch. I can’t wear shorts, because of the unsightly ravaging of my flesh. I can’t sleep. I can’t walk. I can’t talk about anything except how itchy my knees are.
My wiener keeps giving me deeply disturbed looks.
My Love regards me sympathetically… from a distance.
It’s a disaster.
The cute little pharmacy guy, who was kind and earnest and clean-looking, took a step back from my bared leg, the blight of my plague revealed under the glaring grocery store lights.
“Wow… it’s right there. Between your legs.”
“It’s on my KNEES!”
He took another step back, eyes furtively scanning the shelves for analgesics, sterilizing creams, bear mace.
“So… it, um… itches?”
There ought to be a law against using profanity in the general direction of cute little pharmacy guys. People should be arrested for the use of unwarranted profanity. Or at least be given a rusty saw to put themselves out of their misery.
I’m going to spend the next week in a vat of oatmeal.
At least it’s not between my legs.
IT’S ON MY KNEES, OK?
I’m going to find a rusty saw.