I have scabies.

There. I said it. Are you happy, America? The world? I have scabies, OK? Now stop the whispering and the pointing. I might be cursed with a disease generally associated with poor and unwashed children, but I'm still a man. I'm a man and I refuse to hide any longer. I struggle with my condition every day. For that I want recognition. I don't want a hand out. I want a hand up. Or a hand out. Whichever is easier.

My struggle with scabies began a few weeks ago when I got a dog. His name is Gary, and he came to me with an itchy, bloody, smelly, and generally disgusting skin condition that the vet suspected was an allergy of some kind. Test after test came up negative and medications were prescribed.

Gary's condition improved while mine deteriorated. My forearms were covered with tiny welts that itched as though I'd been injected with a solution of one part Cholula and two parts Adams Novelty Itching Powder. As I am a survivor and very gifted at internet research, I was able to discover that which has become my nemesis -- the sarcopses mite, architect of sarcoptic mange, otherwise known as scabies. I contacted the nibbishy and effeminate vet, Dr. Dickes, who confirmed my prognosis.

Gary is now on the appropriate cocktail of steroids, antibiotics, and Ivermectin. American Idol is my only salve. I am doomed to itch until young Gary is free of his pest infestation, but that does not mean I cannot love. I am not contagious. The sarcopses that burrow into my skin condemn themselves to die. The vet says I'm not a good host.

But I say I'm a great host. Shun me no longer, America!

Analogcabin @ 1:08 PM
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