Savoring the Unpleasant

Do you ever get an itch, some interminable little cyclone of nerve-ending twitch just below the surface of your skin, something so intense and maddening that you just want to grab a fork, tear away the outer layers, and let whatever it is that's in there trying to get out, OUT?

But then...you pause? You grin that mirthless, empty grin of yours, lean back, and just begin to revel in the sheer, awful, wonderous torture of it? It's like some feral little alien has implanted an egg sac there, just above your ankle, just shy of the achilles tendon, and the thing has hatched, spilling out a thousand hungry little microscopic termites trying to eat their way to freedom.

Your entire body twitches with involuntary spasms as the core of your mind fights desperately to dig your fingernails in and furiously scratch and claw like you were trapped inside a coffin, buried in some lost and forgotten graveyard by a sociopathic gym teacher. You want to take a cheese grater to it until you see bone.

But you don't.

You masochistically let the ravening spasms terrorize your foot, your leg, the entire left side of your body. You grin wider, longer, more sincerely as the sheer ridiculous misery of it forces an hysterical giggle between clenched teeth. You're doubled over, clutching your fists against your stomach, your leg trembling with pent up frustration as something like acid eats away at the edges of your sanity by way of a few inflamed nerve endings.

Finally, you give in, and attack your ankle like a racoon caught in a bear trap. Pleasure receptors overload as the sweet, healing endorphins pulse through your system, bringing a near-orgasmic sense of relief as you scrub away at the little pocket of torment.

Your skin is red and raw, but the itch has grown quiescent, and life, for a moment vibrant with unspent angst, resumes its state of paltry grey and mullish, drizzly indifference.