[Scratch, scratch, scratch]

My eyes gradually pry open as the new day slowly comes into focus.

[Scratch, scratch, scratch]

I can breathe slightly better than I could hours before, but there still seems to be a bit of laboring when I inhale.

[Scratch, scratch, scratch]

Why am I so fucking itchy? Armpit itches. Butt itches. Behind the knee itches. Even the area around the cootchi-cootch itches. I wrap myself tightly in my blanket like a burrito in an attempt to smother the mysterious skin irritation. But it's no use. Eventually I just can't take it any longer and have to get a visual on what's disturbing my morning slumber.

I throw the blankets off my body and stumble towards my bathroom to have a look at the situation. When I get to the mirror I pull my pajama pants down over a hefty-size butt cheek. The sudden flash of an ass that hasn't seen the sun since 1992 makes me wince—but once the initial shock of the blinding butt glare passes, I see it. I see the source of my unwanted wakeup call.

"Asshole!" I scowl.

Sure enough, there are swollen red bumps—about 3 or 4 swellings that look like half marbles lined up in a row—on different parts of my body. The consecutive manner in which the patches of bumps are developing seems to point to one conclusion. This is the handiwork of something very hungry—taking successive bites in random locations as it made its way along my buffet line.

"Fiddy Cent!" I yell. "You dick!"

Throwing on the first oversized sweatshirt that catches my eye, I storm out of my condo and immediately begin searching for a twig beneath an old maple tree. When I finally locate one, I grab the small branch and proceed to whirl up all signs of arachnid activity off my front porch. Basically, I sort of look like an angry cotton candy vendor at the county fair—the type of stranger parents warn their kids not to take sweets from. Luckily, the treat I have to offer doesn't look appetizing at all.

After swirling up a stick full of fluffy thread and bug parts, I march across the parking lot and throw the anti-candy over a bush-covered hill.

"We had an agreement, Fiddy Cent," I yell into the leafy greens. "No whacking—no snacking. This isn't what I meant when I asked you to weave me a sign. You're just an eight-legged—asshole!"

Satisfied with the punishment bestowed upon the thug who dishonored the laws of the No Squash Pact, I turn on my toes and strut back to bed.

12:34 PM

The bumps randomly scattered throughout my body just a few hours prior have now morphed into an even more impressive skin mosaic. Small swellings have joined other small swellings to create large swellings. And new disturbances are popping up where healthy flesh existed just this morning. Something is terribly wrong. This might not be a spider bite problem.

I do what any rational person would do when her skin is rapidly being taken over by a burning disorder of some sort. I immediately jump on my computer and contact Doctor McGoogle so I can self-diagnose my ailment. Yeah—that's what rational people do. A red wave of itch and screams is covering 20% of my body, so the most logical next step is to start researching possible causes.

Okay—first of all—I'd recommend not typing "bumps on skin" in Google Search, then clicking the images link. Believe me—you don't want to do it. Some ugly shit might pop up, and you can't unsee it. Looking through my fingers, I scroll through the images searching for a picture that looks sort of similar to my current predicament.

At one point in my online medical research, I had myself completely convinced I'd need to start writing a last will and testament. Once my affairs were in order, I'd begin calling family and friends to let them know I was dying of a terrible skin disease found only in hippopotamuses. Hopefully this terrible stroke of luck would at least result in my life story being told in a documentary on Animal Planet. It was comforting to know I'd at least be remembered for—something.

Thankfully, after a tad more investigating, I discovered it was also possible I could be suffering from some sort of allergic reaction.

"Allergic reaction?" I whisper. "But I'm not allergic to anything."

It was true. Other than mild to moderate swelling from bug bites, I had always considered myself blessed to be allergy free. It seemed like everyone around me was suffering from one thing or another. Pets. Pollen. Gluten. Poison Ivy. Peanut products. People's bullshit. Latex. Dust and mold. Okay—so maybe I'd swell up and lose my mind every once in a while due to other people's bullshit. But other than that, my body was extremely resilient towards unwanted intrusion.

"You have to stop scratching," I hiss at myself in a lecturing tone. I know I shouldn't be scraping my skin with my nails, but it's agonizing—especially on the posterior. Must. Scratch. Ass.

Out of desperation, my mind starts racing for possible home remedies which might offer some itch relief. It was in this state of anguish I remember that sometimes sunlight can improve irritations on the surface of the skin. In fact, when a family member was suffering from psoriasis, her doctor actually prescribed going to the tanning salon to help ease the symptoms.

"I will literally try anything," I utter through gritted teeth.

I take off my clothes like:

Seriously. I peel my clothing off my body faster than a horny teenage boy and gravitate towards the sunny spot on the carpet in front of the door. Lying on my back, I fling my legs over my head so my naked ass is at a perfect angle for maximum sunlight exposure.

At first the warmth of the sun did seem to relieve some of the irritating tingling, but eventually the discomfort of having my excess gut and boob flesh weighing down on my lungs was more than I could bear. In yoga they call this the Plow Pose. What most people don't know is that PLOW is actually an acronym for Purposely Levying Own Wheezing. I was already having difficulty breathing—this just wasn't going to work.

I roll over on my belly and lay on the carpet like a naked baby on a bearskin rug. So much better. Why did I not just do it this way in the first place? Why do I always go straight for a Cirque du Soleil Act when it's totally not necessary? I sigh, absorbing the subtle comfort of the rays.

"Oh geez," I whisper to no one in particular. "I hope the UPS guy doesn't have an Amazon delivery for me today. Even that little smile on the Amazon box would turn into a shocked frown." 

The thought of some poor, unexpecting delivery man walking up to my front door at this exact moment throws me into a Sophie's Choice struggle. Do I give the conservative Nazi-voice in my brain permission to make me do the impossible of having to choose between itch relief and classy conduct?

"Nope," I sigh, stretching out like sunbathing cat. "I'm not making that choice today."

Besides, maybe it would be good for the UPS man to see a gigantic ass covered in blistering red hives. The visual would make his memory of the time he was sent to the hospital due to being attacked by a couple rabid dogs not seem like such a horrible experience. That's what I'm here for—to make people realize how wonderful their lives truly are.

My life—on the other hand—is about to get not so wonderful.

*****McSEXY BREAK*****

I'm actually mortified to admit how much of this chapter actually happened, so I'm not going to admit to anything!

MUSIC: Nothing But Thieves. ITCH! Maybe I got hives because I needed to feel something real?

Your vote is McAppreciated. Muah!

MarilynHepburn.com