rubbing the nuns out
"26, Mom. I have 26 mosquito bites on my left ankle."
"26?" she questioned. "Are you sure they’re not chiggers?"
Revelation by examination. Chiggers, fucking chiggers is what I have. Not 26 mosquito bites. And that’s just the one ankle. Writhing insect mouths are inside my skin, red welts.
The extraordinary odds: the night before, I’d frolicked in the outdoors and then slept in a tent made for midgets, 50 yards from which two Hispanic gentlemen chopped down a tree with machetes in the morning—Not one bite by insect. I went home and played badminton in the back yard with my roommate for half an hour and fell to full affront by the chigger brigade, red devils.
When my well-being is being tested I lose discretion in public. "Hey Sara, how’s it going?" Bereft of social grace, without greeting or lead-in I reply, "I have _________." Fill in the blank with any of chiggers, cramps, week-long headache, razor burn, nose full of snot, dirty hair, no deodorant on.
Last night after some badminton in the early eve with my roommate, we went to get food and a Guinness from the tap. By the time I finished my victuals, my ankles were fucking alive.
Small, Gumby-like men as if trapped in the toughest bubble elbowed like nuns after the Pope—sink your teeth into this mixed metaphor, baby—, stretching the skin of their unintended wombs—dreadful life, o we born into this foul stench of street and piss—Release us from this skin! Get out get out get out. A thousand voices and elbows in cacophony turned up to 11. The itch of living in the skin of—
This was going on in my ankles. I rubbed with my knuckles, having convinced myself that that wasn’t really scratching and making it worse. The lies we tell ourselves.
Pained face, I rubbed. The bartender’s maternal eyes focused in at me, her face wrinkling with concern.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I—" pause, "uh-huh." Nodding, teeth showing not quite in smile. "Can we have the check?"
I used self-control. I did not wet myself. I did not say, "I have chiggers." Discretion. A kernel of hope for the drunken phalanx in my mind, flaring with either hot flashes or chills but rarely comfortably in line for a soda as the ferry takes off.
"26?" she questioned. "Are you sure they’re not chiggers?"
Revelation by examination. Chiggers, fucking chiggers is what I have. Not 26 mosquito bites. And that’s just the one ankle. Writhing insect mouths are inside my skin, red welts.
The extraordinary odds: the night before, I’d frolicked in the outdoors and then slept in a tent made for midgets, 50 yards from which two Hispanic gentlemen chopped down a tree with machetes in the morning—Not one bite by insect. I went home and played badminton in the back yard with my roommate for half an hour and fell to full affront by the chigger brigade, red devils.
When my well-being is being tested I lose discretion in public. "Hey Sara, how’s it going?" Bereft of social grace, without greeting or lead-in I reply, "I have _________." Fill in the blank with any of chiggers, cramps, week-long headache, razor burn, nose full of snot, dirty hair, no deodorant on.
Last night after some badminton in the early eve with my roommate, we went to get food and a Guinness from the tap. By the time I finished my victuals, my ankles were fucking alive.
Small, Gumby-like men as if trapped in the toughest bubble elbowed like nuns after the Pope—sink your teeth into this mixed metaphor, baby—, stretching the skin of their unintended wombs—dreadful life, o we born into this foul stench of street and piss—Release us from this skin! Get out get out get out. A thousand voices and elbows in cacophony turned up to 11. The itch of living in the skin of—
This was going on in my ankles. I rubbed with my knuckles, having convinced myself that that wasn’t really scratching and making it worse. The lies we tell ourselves.
Pained face, I rubbed. The bartender’s maternal eyes focused in at me, her face wrinkling with concern.
"Are you all right?" she asked.
"I—" pause, "uh-huh." Nodding, teeth showing not quite in smile. "Can we have the check?"
I used self-control. I did not wet myself. I did not say, "I have chiggers." Discretion. A kernel of hope for the drunken phalanx in my mind, flaring with either hot flashes or chills but rarely comfortably in line for a soda as the ferry takes off.
5 Comments:
oh god, i am feeling you. hope the dots of red fire dissipate.
parasitic....really.....it creeps me out
thank you, transience. the ankles seem to be convalescing.
um...anigans, at least they're not in your ankles. signed, freakshow
That was one juicy metaphor!
I never learned what kind of bugs chiggers are. However, when we see those hip-hoppin' suburban Chinese who wannabe niggas, we shall call them chiggas. But without the hip-hoppin' inflection, thus, chiggers.
that's awesome. i have hip-hoppin' suburban Chinese wannabe niggas in my ankles. if i'd known this is what they really were i'd have handled them a little differently.
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