MORBID PESTILENCE, etc
Underpants are no longer an option...
Severe gential chafing means I have had to go commando. Unfortuately, this leaves my plums to the brillo-pad like mercy of 'eavy denim. The only pair of cotton trews I possess are a pair of cargos I bought in Toronto in '98 from the Beastie Boys X-Large shop; however, even these are too harsh, but I am too weak to send the servants out for velvet, but I take some comfort in the fact that these are extremely baggy. Strangely, the sores on my forehead seem to hurt more than those on my balls. Something to do w/ the micro-density of nerve-endings, I presume.
Yesterday my bones ached on some inexplicable, hitherto unknown sub-atomic level. And the lesions fucking hurt, I'm tellin' ya, all 5 hundred of 'em. I look like I've headbutted a bee-hive. Heh. I haven't had this much fun since I dug up the neighbours' dead dog and made a mask out of it.
Can't wait until the unbearable comedy-itching phase begins.
But, on the plus side:
(1) I can't possibly finish my Christmas shopping (hurrah!)
(2) Can't possibly visit relatives...tho most are dead anyway, so have just freaked myself out with some creepy internal imagery.
(3) Don't have to shave for a couple weeks (double plus-points hurrah!).
I will return to talking about music, etc again real sooooon, but, hey, this is a unique blogging opportunity that needs to be milked til it bleeds (and, boy, does it ever bleed). Wouldn't want things to get stale around here.
Okay, gotta go; limited energy levels right now; I'm still only up an hour or two a day and I hadda type this in a couple shifts. Also, my typing is all over the shop. Mind is infuriatingly active, but body refuses to cooperate.