Okay, I rarely ever do this, and I was about to rant about the recent STUPIDITY regarding the medical marijuana ruling in the Supreme Court today (sheesh, doesn’t anybody remember how “successful” Prohibition was in stamping out alcohol consumption?) but I was teasing and carding wool this evening, seeing the dirt bits drift out from the carding combs onto my legs, and all I could think of was, “God, my legs look ugly.”

Because my feet and legs are covered in flea bites — flea bites on top of flea bites, mostly healed flea bites (which are dark brown spots) next to sort-of healing flea bites (which was brownish-red) to brand new flea bites (which are an angry strawberry red colour). I’ve been slathering radioactive-strength, prescription-only steriodal ointment on them (because I’m highly allergic to bug bites and I’m prone to jungle rot) and taking antihistamines in both topical and oral form, until the anti-flea stuff that I sprayed like a madwoman around the house finally kills off the last of the f@%&ers. In the greater scheme of things, flea-bitten legs are no big deal — hell, I’ve had 98% of my skin nearly *gone* in diagnosed jungle rot my junior year in college and, if gone further, I would’ve died of a blood infection like *that* because my immune system was that compromised.

But I’m being silly and girly and petty, and right now my legs look butt-farking-ugly and maybe I should just sit myself in the sofa with a gigantic tub of icecream in front of the Oprah Winfrey Show and just let my body do the inevitable slide to total uglitude as I whimper into my strawberry-and-cream. And then go outside and eat worms, surrounded by the smallest, all-violin orchestra in the world.

Bleah. Maybe I just need vodka…