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I'm studying for my Classical Mythology final, and I've come to the conclusion that life would've been much easier for the Hellenes if they'd just keep their cranks and weewahs stashed chastely inside their tunics. The sheer volume of extramarital fucking in these stories is enough to make a certified nymphomaniac pass on the pud. I'm a gleeful and unrepentant horndog who'd happily fuck a doorknob if I but had the dexterity to mount it(Alas, I don't. Goddammit), and I'm so tired of reading about the sexploits of Herakles and Theseus, et al, that I could enroll in Jesus camp to escape the ancient pornicatings.
I haven't been sleeping well for the past few days because my feet have decided to develop a maddening itch that only manifests itself when I'm in bed at night. I can stay upright until three in the morning, but the minute I go horizontal, the prickling itch starts deep in the soles. My heels feel like ants are biting them, but the bed and floor are clean. I've tried Curel, Vaseline, and now Tinactin, and if this doesn't work, I'm going to lose my mind, because I'm tired of being awakened from a peaceful dead sleep by the voracious nibbling of footie cooties upon my toes.
I think my skin is simply rebelling against the unnaturally dry, cold air, because I can nap during the warm daylight hours without incident, but as soon as the air cools, the fire kindles in my feet. I have raw patches on my toes and heels from rubbing them against anything to soothe the itch. I know that's the absolute wrong thing to do and is just prolonging the misery, but when it's ass o'clock in the morning and your feet are being assailed by carnivorous amoeba, logic can go fuck itself con goddamn brio, motherfucker. I should not be contemplating unanesthetized amputation as a reasonable treatment option.
I've got so much Vaseline on my feet that I look like I'm inventing the sexual sport of footing, a cousin of fisting that's sure to be a hit with Germans and foot fetishists. This isn't the first time my feet have engaged in such didoes. I've suffered hyperhydrosis, as well as athlete's foot and plain old dry skin. None has ever been so ferocious and tenacious as this bout, however. I hope it ends soon because I dread exposing my puffy, purple, brittle-boned feet to the gimlet-eyed scrutiny of a holier-than-thou clinic jockey who will chide me for my poor circulation as though it were a vice in which I furtively engage and not an unfortunate byproduct of my Cerebral Palsy.
I haven't been sleeping well for the past few days because my feet have decided to develop a maddening itch that only manifests itself when I'm in bed at night. I can stay upright until three in the morning, but the minute I go horizontal, the prickling itch starts deep in the soles. My heels feel like ants are biting them, but the bed and floor are clean. I've tried Curel, Vaseline, and now Tinactin, and if this doesn't work, I'm going to lose my mind, because I'm tired of being awakened from a peaceful dead sleep by the voracious nibbling of footie cooties upon my toes.
I think my skin is simply rebelling against the unnaturally dry, cold air, because I can nap during the warm daylight hours without incident, but as soon as the air cools, the fire kindles in my feet. I have raw patches on my toes and heels from rubbing them against anything to soothe the itch. I know that's the absolute wrong thing to do and is just prolonging the misery, but when it's ass o'clock in the morning and your feet are being assailed by carnivorous amoeba, logic can go fuck itself con goddamn brio, motherfucker. I should not be contemplating unanesthetized amputation as a reasonable treatment option.
I've got so much Vaseline on my feet that I look like I'm inventing the sexual sport of footing, a cousin of fisting that's sure to be a hit with Germans and foot fetishists. This isn't the first time my feet have engaged in such didoes. I've suffered hyperhydrosis, as well as athlete's foot and plain old dry skin. None has ever been so ferocious and tenacious as this bout, however. I hope it ends soon because I dread exposing my puffy, purple, brittle-boned feet to the gimlet-eyed scrutiny of a holier-than-thou clinic jockey who will chide me for my poor circulation as though it were a vice in which I furtively engage and not an unfortunate byproduct of my Cerebral Palsy.
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