I’ve spent the majority of today scratching at my flesh like a mad dog, because in spite of coating my body with so many ointments it’s a wonder I haven’t slid off the face of the earth into the great void, I’m still feeling the effects of being attacked by a billion bed bugs. Seriously. Not meaning to be graphic, this is what I look like underneath my clothes today.
As you can see, they moved with mighty stealth in a delicate flower shape around my hip, chewing each petal in a dramatic display of evolution, creating art from simple flesh and bone.
That done, they moved swiftly upwards, spreading the petals as though they were wind borne in the night.
Up they went, determined in their artistic quest to create a work like no other bug had done before on my vast, sleeping British canvas. They umm’d and aah’d, held a meeting around the conference table-esque curve of my armpit and decided to recreate Orion’s Belt around my boob.
They managed three stars and a far off outline of a distant Jupiter before I woke up and swatted, squashed and screamed my way free of their sketchings.
But still they left their mark. I smell of Tiger Balm right now. And red wine. It all numbs the pain, but not the memory.