Guilty pleasures
Aug. 23rd, 2014 09:38 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lydyFor the most part, I don't have them. Either they aren't pleasurable, or they don't make me feel guilty. I find most stupid television and movies boring, and don't watch them. And when I re-read (yes, re-read) _Crystal Singer_ by Anne McCaffrey, I don't feel guilty. Now, I am aware that it is a supremely terrible book. It is not well written, it is formulaic, is is predictable, the characters are not well drawn, and logic there is none. Absolutely no part of it stands up to casual scrutiny, much less careful scrutiny. And yet, I read it with real pleasure and sometimes even read the sequel _Killishandra Ree_, which is exactly the same only worse in every possible dimension. And I enjoy it, too.
But scratching? An insect bite? Oh, yes, there is a guilty pleasure. I resist. I remind myself that it doesn't help, it only makes things worse. I distract myself. I argue with myself. And then, sometimes without even realizing I've made a decision, I start scratching. And the first few scrapes are a weird combination of intense relief and heightened itchiness. As the scratching progresses, I start to feel waves of pleasure and relief, and then intense relief along with minor pain -- usually by this point I've scraped off rather too much skin. Usually, the itching stops before the pain gets intense, and then there are a few moments of blessed comfort. But with every scratch, with each wave of relief and pleasure, there's that absolute knowledge that I'm only making things worse. That I'm spreading the bug juice to which I'm so allergic, I'm damaging my epidermis, and the healing of which will cause more itching, and the absolute, experimentally validated certainty that bites that I scratch will itch more often and for longer than bites that I leave the fuck alone. And yet, there I am, scratching that damn bite, and it feels so good. There is no point during the scratching process where I am not thinking, "Stop, just stop, just fucking stop right now." And when I finally stop, I feel stupid and guilty. Sometimes, the relief from the itching is literally less than a minute in duration. And then, there I am again, resisting, igorning, then scratching.
tl;dr: fucking fleas
But scratching? An insect bite? Oh, yes, there is a guilty pleasure. I resist. I remind myself that it doesn't help, it only makes things worse. I distract myself. I argue with myself. And then, sometimes without even realizing I've made a decision, I start scratching. And the first few scrapes are a weird combination of intense relief and heightened itchiness. As the scratching progresses, I start to feel waves of pleasure and relief, and then intense relief along with minor pain -- usually by this point I've scraped off rather too much skin. Usually, the itching stops before the pain gets intense, and then there are a few moments of blessed comfort. But with every scratch, with each wave of relief and pleasure, there's that absolute knowledge that I'm only making things worse. That I'm spreading the bug juice to which I'm so allergic, I'm damaging my epidermis, and the healing of which will cause more itching, and the absolute, experimentally validated certainty that bites that I scratch will itch more often and for longer than bites that I leave the fuck alone. And yet, there I am, scratching that damn bite, and it feels so good. There is no point during the scratching process where I am not thinking, "Stop, just stop, just fucking stop right now." And when I finally stop, I feel stupid and guilty. Sometimes, the relief from the itching is literally less than a minute in duration. And then, there I am again, resisting, igorning, then scratching.
tl;dr: fucking fleas
no subject
Date: 2014-08-23 04:10 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-08-23 04:18 pm (UTC)Gods, I hate insect bites. Today is the first day since Monday when I haven't tried to claw large holes in my epidermis. I also ended up with what was probably an allergic reaction on my left arm, a red splotch fully two feet long and nine inches wide at its widest point. I measured it Wednesday night. I can't tell if it was an allergic reaction to the bites or to the antihistamine the doctor gave me. I stopped taking the antihistamine, but the bites are starting to age out, so could have been either. Neither the antihistamine nor the salve the doctor prescribed did shit.