contemplativeGrowing up on a farm in the country meant I was always getting bitten by something or other in the summer. Ticks are old hat to me; I remember finding five or six on me in one day. To say nothing of the things that bit and then disappeared. Then when I got older, there were shaving gashes. There's always something there to absent-mindedly scratch as I'm stepping into the shower.
The scabs are revolting, I know. When other people notice them, they gas, "What happened to your arm/leg/one of your two thousand body parts?" Usually I don't remember. My mom in particular wonders what's wrong with me when I do that.
I don't know why I do it. Maybe I'm fascinated with the blood, the pain. I don't know.
I pick scabs in my head, too. Maybe it's being a Taurus. Natalia tells me that I beat a dead horse like no one else she knows.
This also troubles Mom. When I used to bitch about Nathan and Hill, or later, my evil bitch roommate from hell, she'd end up screaming at me to let it go. The screaming never was very effective.
Maybe I don't want to let my scabs heal. I don't know why.
