At Least Two Cracks
The local Virginia mechanic and I have this unspoken agreement that if I don't mention the crack in my windshield or the fact that I'm three months tardy on inspection, he won't pull out a measuring device to determine if my crack is legal or has spread into illegal territory, nor will he charge me the late penalty on the inspection tag. Those two things, the crack, and me being late are three years old although I guess me being late is harder to restrict to any one time frame. But for three years running now we wink and nod and I give him 16 dollars and head back to the so called farm where I spend some time each year.
Speaking of restrictions it is my goal here to minimize the use of the word pustule. Nobody wants to read the word pustule for breakfast. Once you get the word pustule in your head it is harder to get out than that Tony Orlando and Dawn song. And so far I only have the one bona fide pustule and the only reason it ("it" being the word "pustule") comes to mind is because it (again, the pustule) is between the middle and ring finger of my left hand and I can hardly move around the asdf range not to mention the qwerty vicinity without some friction occurring around said pustule. It is poison ivy season. Every year about this time I come to Virginia and strip down to the legal limit and then in a variety of fashions roll around practically nekkid in poison ivy. This year I took to masticating jungles of poison ivy or oak (if I could tell them apart from each other or their benign cousins, which you do frequently see them interspersed with, I wouldn't be writing this pustule-heavy essay) with a weedeater, line trimmer, gas powered trimming and weed destruction machine, and bits of plant matter and poisonous oils were fairly floating like dust motes caught in sunlight in an artily shot Western starring some actor who may or may not have written into his contract that dirt is allowed to be shown under his fingernails if it advances authenticity.
I have it on the inside of both wrists. I have one or two near-pustules behind my left ear. A hint of rash on my forehead, I'm not sure what that is on my chin, and last night after discovering that both legs from knee cap to ankle are pretty well covered I also found a new patch on my right bicep. I bathe in both Technu and some Burts Bees soap I am trying out this year. Technu is basically paint thinner and the soap I don't really know what it is but I just lather up with it and then don't rinse it off.
I have a half dozen chigger bites. If I had to choose my favorite two it would be those in the crease that is the backside of my right knee. I haven't found any ticks on me yet, which is unusual considering the territory I've been traipsing through but probably the few that have considered me have reconsidered after getting a good look at my skin. This is one fucked up son of a gun the one tick says to the other. Yeah man the other tick responds, let's get out of here, I'd rather suck blood from the anus of a possum.
I think I crossed the line with that last line. That was just gross. Gratuitous grossness. I should have stuck with pustules.
At the mechanic's this morning I am reading a three day old Washington Post about Mitt Romney's gay bashing days which I only mention to cull readership, or what I mean is, to cull from the masses and direct here to my pustule ramblings those select few who may put together in a search string, for whatever sick reason, the words, "Mitt Romney" and "anus of a possum." Those are the kind of readers I want. I know, be careful what you wish for.
I've been working since Wednesday painting this caretaker's cottage out here at Mt. Pleasant Farm so that makes tomorrow, Tuesday, the Lord's day of rest for me but it's raining today so I'll make this the Lord's day except I have to get up there and vacuum the stink bugs from out of the bighouse. There is no rest for the weary, there is no day more dreary, there is nothing more humbling, than stumbling, on a crack, in a sidewalk.
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