A bug of somesort managed it's way into my socks - presumably pre-wear but post folding - and, I imagine in my paranoid little mind, set up shop waiting for me. Like a little sniper, patient at his post, waiting, waiting, justtt for that right moment when the trigger would ease back ease, ease into it's notch, click, bang. BOOM. This one, I suspect, was a spider. Thus the unscientific terminology. I'm pretty sure a spider can be a bug, eight legs or not, and I know this one was just that: a bug. a pest. a nuisance. an annoyance. a pain in my.. well, leg. I noticed while I was sitting at work tip-tapping away and I stopped to feel what was going on. Even through the cotton I could tell there were some hefty bumps leftover from our friend's little picnic in the park. I peeled my sock back and sure enough, lumps upon lumps. Quite a few of them, in fact, all around my achilles heal. Itchy. A good solid pestering itch of the sort that makes you quickly forget any sort of humanity you ever had towards bugs. "Just get a tissue and put it outside" becomes the last phrase someone will hear you utter as you rampage through the house smashing anything that moves with some sort of large flat utensil as if your world were a giant fraternity and you - you were the grand master. The bugs, the recruits, those sniveling little pledges need to be taught some humility. Some bone-crushing, exoskeleton mangling, innard squishing humility.
This was all a practice in metaphors. Any resembelance to the bug bites I found on my ankle today is completely coincidental.
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the guys: philogynist jaime tony - the gals:raymi raspil
