Musings of a Drunken Monk: Individual Entry Archive

For the past few weeks, I have been the unfortunate host to a very irritating set of insanely-itchy insect bites. Maybe a month ago, I mowed the lawn and did some cleaning around the house, and that evening "The Curse" appeared. I swear a group of ninja mosquitos attacked my ankles out of nowhere and slowly worked their way up my left leg. I was on fire for days. Thankfully, it went away within a week.

Cue "The Return of The Curse." This time it was the right leg.

Having suffered through the insanity once before and remembering just how much I wanted to scratch my leg with sandpaper (this did actually occur to me, by the way), I went straight to the doctor. The (tentative) diagnosis? Scabies! Oh joy!

Now before you get all "ewww Justin has a nasty STD" on me, keep this in mind. Scabies isn't an STD. You can get it from an unclean environment, hugging a carrier, or even shaking hands with someone. How's that for sexually transmitted? Regardless of the "it's not as naffy as you think" rationale, I still feel like a leper. And boy, if you like all that medieval role-playing or whatnot, is scabies for you! Why do I feel like a leper? Oh, perhaps it's the feeling that everyone is a little hesitant to get near you. Maybe it's the feeling that your affected bodypart will fall off when you get into a hot shower. Maybe it's the fact that there are little friggin bugs laying eggs in a burrow in your flesh! But it really is a riproaring time, here in the leprosy colony. Let me fill you in on the joys of leprosy.

• Personal Space: Nothing says "I need me time" like some red itchy skin lesions. Accordingly, nothing says it like the words "I have scabies." You'll be surprised how much people value your privacy when you have a contagious parasite. It's sweet. It's just you, your thoughts, and the little fuckers burying their bodies in your epidermis. You'll have all that time to yourself! You can spend all that time sterilizing your room and your house, just like you've always wanted to do! Because you know, what I really wanted to spend my Wednesday night doing was not going to see a movie but rather it was mopping, vacuuming, and sterilizing an entire house that was made nigh uninhabitably dirty by people other than myself, and may be the original cause for my infestation!
• Imagination: The itching, which according to medical texts typically gets worse at night (I can attest to that, though it does burn pretty much all day), will have you thinking of new and very colorful methods of gaining scratch-satisfaction. Serrated knives, forks, and amputation by chainsaw all seem to be attractive options.
• Pharmacies: I imagine we've all had to fill embarrassing prescriptions before. How about going to your local CVS pharmacy, where the woman (it has to be a member of the opposite sex, just like the doctor who diagnosed you, which somehow makes it twice as uncomfortable) tries hard to remain professional and not make personal wagers on how you got your personal leprosy flava. So she goes to the back to see if they have any, where for all you know, she's cringing and wiping her hands, hoping she didn't contract The Curse simply by touching a piece of paper you held. Ah, they're out at this CVS, how about we call the other one? Sure, you can announce it to the other pharmacists at this location and the other one that there's a leper on the loose. I do remember getting the "wow, come here often?" look from the other pharmacist, who had seen me the day before when I had to get a copy of another prescription. That's a fun time, let me tell you. Oh yeah, they have loads of the cream (see below) in the other location. You just have to go there and hope no one makes fun of you there, too ...
• Cream! Do you know how they treat it? Full body skin lotion. Go ahead, cover every square inch of your body (including face, foot soles, and anything else you can think of) with a cream that smells mildly like Justin Dufresne. Then leave it on for 8-14 hours. If you don't know who Justin Dufresne is, I'll give you the scoop: he's a guy I've known my whole life, and ever since he came back from Europe he's been ... different. Namely he has a particular odor associated with his personal hygiene habits that we all have come to refer to simply as the "Dufresne" smell. It's not necessarily bad (sometimes), it's just ... Dufresne. It took me stewing in the smell for a good hour before I realized it smelled exactly like his hair. So, you put the cream on, smell like Dufresne, and you lie down to sleep and everything gets all oily like the cream. Faaaantastic! The best part is having to ask your male roommate, who in all likelihood, like everyone else, is doing his best to respect your need for space, to slather it on the part of your back that you simply can't reach. Sounds appealing? Oh yeah, both for him and you!
• Fear of it reaching your junk: Because you've always wondered what it would look like if a "problem" ever happened to your parts ... and you really really want to know.

Honestly, doesn't that sound like fun? Who wouldn't want to experience such madcap hilarity! Obviously I didn't want to miss out, because why else would I have the pleasure of spending my evening cleaning and decontaminating?

Sounds like your bag? I've compiled a few simple steps for you to follow that will maximize your chances of catching the scabies fun-train:

• Hang out at a laundromat and rub yourself with peoples' clothes before they get washed.
• Don't wash yourself. Ever.
• Live in a less-than-clean environment. Refuse to clean until your roommates do, which results in dust bunnies larger (and more hardassed ... ever seen a dustbunny rumble with a rodent?) than the average NYC rat.
• Be really friendly with those grubby guys who hang around in Harvard Square, drink 40s, and beg for money for more 40s. No, these aren't the homeless guys. They have a more respectable place in society. These guys are teenage "punks." Go hug a punk. If he doesn't punch you and call you a fag, you'll be sure to contract some sort of parasite.
• Ride public transportation in Boston. Hang out as much as possible at the Boylston T stop.

Well, I'm sure you get the idea. Have fun, and remember, in the dark ages, they didn't have the cream. Ever wonder where the term "seven year itch" came from?

Yeah.