You know when you have that feeling. That itch that begs for relief? You want to scratch it. Sate the desire. But you can’t. You don’t because you’re in public places and corporate big wigs frown on these things in their presence. That makes the itch beg even harder.
After a time, you don’t notice the itch anymore. You drown it out with your other senses. The wine‘s scent invites you to drink. The TV dulls the pain. The Little Deborah‘s hold parties in your mouth. Big Radio kills your will to live.
Then, completely by accident you turn the street corner and rub against the side. You scratched.
Weeks worth of non-scratching sensation hits you at once. There’s no way to avoid it now. You must put fingernail to flesh. You must sate the desire. You must scratch.
That’s how I feel about not writing the last few weeks. I had a test on Thursday. Two essay questions a page and a half each. Closed book. That was my street corner.
Interwub, prepare for my fingernail.
