Chigga Please!

Chigga Please!

     I thought I would be coming to you in my second ever blog with stories of my family of abandoned animals, or maybe how I fell in love on the Metro-Link with a jobless guy who was clearly selling crack. Wait, does that still make him jobless?  Now I'm going off on a tangent so I need to revert back to the story.  

     St. Louis, Missouri...what exactly AREN'T we the capitol of?  Homicide, STD's, baseball...you know, what makes America AMURICA. Located in the lovely Midwest, it is almost smack dab in the middle of the whole darn country. Yearly tornadoes and hail storms galore, how bout an earthquake to jack up your floor?  As a St. Louisan, we take pride in our city, and we're known for drinkin beer, float trippin' and hoosier love. I can't help but be proud to be from the Midwest, with its nice people who say "Hi."  I once said Hi to someone in an elevator in NYC and they looked at me with a look of, I don't know, fear, disgust, and "oh god please don't follow that up by asking me for change," but I digress.  

     In the midst of good ole' Route 66 Country, deep beneath the blades of the old prairie acres, lurks something so hideous, the eyes do not want to see it, so it was rendered, small as fuck...a flesh thirsty ravenous beast I dub the "Living Zombie."  Soul sucking heathens known as Chiggers which are the reasons rolling down hills as a child came to an abrupt end. The bastards cling to your skin and set up camp in horrible places such as your underwear lines, (god help you that you're wearing some) armpits, buttcracks and every location with conditions resembling a rainforest.  Well, I was attacked the other day, like Bill Murray in Caddyshack, those nasty little bastards burrowed holes all up in my golf course, creating welts, making me almost insane. Something, and I didn't care what...needed to die. 13 Chiggers inserted their feeding structures into the skin and injected enzymes that cause destruction of the host tissue, or in my case the ass, ankles, ribs, almost in the same hole as my belly button ring and upper boobular area. Hardening of the surrounding skin results in the formation of a feeding tube called a stylostome. Chigger larvae then feed upon the destroyed tissue. If they are not disturbed (how ever the bloody hell that is possible, since you claw at your skin like an opiate addict all up on some smack) they may feed through the stylostome for a few days. Hmmmmm...Let me break it down for you...there is one located like a star on a Christmas tree right at the tippy top, front and center of my ass crack and  I was using a back scratcher to get at it. I was desperate and on the fence of running for the razors because of the ass crack itch intensity. Anything this itchy in a personal spot is from complete hell.  I'd like to give a shout out to the bitches with yeast infections, jock itch, herpes, crabs, latex allergies, beard-burn, or anything else that requires an ointment. As I used this back scratcher, it looked like I was making a transaction with my credit card, as I kept swiping the wooded hand down my ass crack.  Approved...Approved...Approved...Decline. Friends, I got so desperate the first night and Walgreens was closed so I raided my medicine cabinet and put vagisil on them.  Vagisil...soothing power for more than your vag.

     I know that's a lovely visual, but lets move onto the chigger larve feeding upon my destroyed tissue....vomit.  My broke ass just ate tacos at Jack in the Box, and I'm expected to feed the children of 13 chiggers??  Since when did I become the social services department in the country of Chiggeragua?  This grosses me out, so I immediately made a killer cocktail of bleach, peroxide, rubbing alcohol and Mad Dog 20/20...I wanted them dead, and this seemed like the logical concoction. I doused them repeatedly, but the one on my ankle kept itching like the dickens.  In haste, I resorted to flicking my bic for 8 seconds, then flipped it over and tried to make the itch stop by burning it.  Some might say, WTF Miss Bea?  Are you friggin' nuts?  Yes.  Like hot water to poison ivy or any other itchy condition, the burn feels as an orgasmic scratching feeling.  Don't think I'm weird, if you know what I'm sayin', it's an experience.  So I'm doing some shots and drinking some wine as I wait with anticipation to see if my blood makes them white girl wasted and they just pass out and fall off my skin. I warn you Amurica, when you skip through the fields of the beautiful Midwest, scattered with wild flowers much more breathtaking than the rose, and with honeysuckle that kisses the morning dew on a crisp summers day...don't end up going fetal in a shower of Off Outdoor Spray...wear some ma'fa'n socks! 

    

Dirty Little Secrets

Dirty Little Secrets

   We walk down a long familiar hallway to a room our bodies frequent, and no matter the size, each of our rooms will have their darkened closets.  Upon opening its door, Bernoulli's breath blows as the skeletons sway a little dance of death. So my friend, how much does your closet hold?

    I prefer my mind to appear as a walk-in closet, with lots of room for baggage, and empty hangers, or as I call them "Henry's" after Henry VIII. He would appreciate something that hangs headless things.  The Henry's wait with the promise that they will reconcile with their loneliness and add but another pish to the posh. I guess if you're going to frolic with me in the wonderland of my mind you should at least know a few key things about me.  

    I am a smut-minded mix of type A & D personality, although if I were an A & D ointment, I wouldn't be able to help that rash on your ass. I'm not going to disclose my age because this lady wears fire-foxy gloves so yes, I do in fact have a vagina, which despite what penises or penes think, doesn't always help you out when you get pulled over...at all...ever.  Not that I'm dancing with the dogs, but the blood sucking ticks of the law like to taste my sweet broke flesh.  Broke you say?  Yeah, I don't currently have a boyfriend, but I'm getting fucked in the ass by Tuition.  He doesn't even tell me he loves me before he crams it in, but I can do nothing.  I am a student, a scholar and a shot caller.  I am a bartender WAHOO!  And honeys, I was here way before 50 Shades.  I plan on telling you some stories about my job, but I am not emphasizing on that here, this blog isn't about that, it's about me and what I feel like talking about.  I enjoy writing although I mainly take science classes at school.  I was encouraged by this hussy I know named Emily to express my mental wonders on those around me via blogger so here I am once bitten, twice shy.  I am single, no diaper shit clean ups in isle 5, but I have pets that I consider my children, and they would consist of two dogs and two cats, all boys.  I will showcase "The Chiltrens" soon. 

     I feel like I'm on a date with someone, candles lit, me singing Barry White while the neighborhood hounds throw out some background vocals because "I love to play all up in your hair."  In essence, we are speed dating right now.  You are checking this out deciding if you ever want to read me again.  Their blogs are so big and mine is the size of your pinky, but that pinky is packed full of intensity, obscenity, indecency...increasingly.

     Word of Warning:  In case you haven't noticed, my mouth is in the Navy and my mind is in the gutter so if you get easily offended, ummmmm yeah...well strap-on or in, it's going to be a bumpy ride full of Dirty Little Secrets...   (to be continued)