The tickle in the no-no spot

Sometimes it feels like an itch you cannot scratch.


When lost I think about my guru, who talks truth and sense. I think about my godfather, who encourages me to do the right thing, and I think about my priest, who forgives me for my mistakes. What more does a woman need?


The tickle is not just any tickle. Sometimes I wonder if I ever have to go as far as my heart surgeon in order to tackle it. In the end she’s not as foolish as I am. I wonder how could one ever be able to repress a memory or a feeling for so long that it becomes something else, something more endurable.

I am not as ambitious as she is, although we both tackle issues with things that are illusory. All philosophy and religion have nothing better to offer than the illusory and it’s up to us whether or not to believe in it. Even the concept of love falls into the same category, and yet the tickle is trying to prove me the opposite.


I cannot say I have any patience or the ears to listen to a word that it has to say; it’s way too demanding and I have nothing to give, because I am not receiving, either.

Here, reverse psychology has a nasty effect, I cannot tell it to scratch itself and so it evolves into something like the cookie monster.  My mind begins to feed on endless phantasies that are inappropriate, but I cannot stop. Despite knowing it won’t ever do the job, I cannot help thinking about it, me inside an aerotrim, spinning and spinning, barfing on myself till I lose consciousness, because I can’t counterbalance appropriately.


Spinning and spinning, maybe that way the tickle


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