Bad shit, people. There are these little red bumps on my left index finger, like I've been attacked by chiggers or nits or some other small parasitic insects. Fleas? Christ if I have fleas where will that leave me? Flea-bitten, that's where. In this day and age for a grown man to be flea-bitten, why, that's inconceivable. I keep using that word and it does mean what I think it means. A flea-bitten man is one to be shunned, and rightfully so. Unless of course he's homeless, in which case, I dunno, cut the guy some slack, he's living in a box. Of course he's gonna have fleas.
I don't live in a box, I live in a house, and although we have a dog, the dog is bathed and groomed regularly and receives his monthly dose of Frontline. So it's probably not fleas. I don't know what the fuck these bumps are, but they itch, they're annoying me, and pretty soon I'm gonna start talking to them like I was a narrator from an Edgar Allen Poe tale. Bumps! Why will you not go away?! I did a paper spoofing Poe in high school; my teacher really liked it, said I had a knack for satire, and boy did I manage to parlay that into a successful blogging career! I just got a check for $60 from my advertisers! SIXTY. 6 OH. That's a trip to the gas station, a pizza, and a sixer of Guinness. Big time operator shit.
Back to the bumps. I get these every so often, and I'm trying to discern a pattern, like the crazy guy on Fringe does. I think I have. See, I'm getting older - in about 6 months I will be 40. FORTY. 4 OH. And when you get old bad shit happens to you. Hair grows out of your ears. Your knees make odd sounds. You start pondering What It All Means. You think of Ozymandias. You look around at people and places and come to the realization that everything is temporary, nothing lasts, and one day even the big bright sun is going to collapse in upon itself and suck the rest of the solar system down with it. So it stands to reason that getting weird itchy bumps on your left index finger is just part of the deal.
