My inner thighs are severely chafed, and the skin is raw and very uncomfortable.

I became aware of this condition at about 3 this afternoon. My thighs, not so taut as they once were, began to sting and stick to one another and my scrotum whenever I attempted to move. This is, I suspect, the result of my nervous eagerness to begin preparing at approximately 6 this morning for the movers to arrive and pack up my belongings at noon. Rather than prep myself fully for a day's work that would surely only sully my delicate perfection up again, I chose to hop out of bed and slip on some slightly used Dickies without the benefit of undergarments.

In retrospect, I see that this was a poor decision.

Today it was about 90 degrees in Chicago, and humid as only an August day in Chicago can be. That is, very.

I sweat through my synthetic fibered work pants, and I sweat them through again. My thighs, normally glorious and pearlescent in the light of God's world, are now red and irritated, chapped and perhaps even pussy.

Puss-covered, that is.

At around 4, I decided the balm for my soul and also my thighs would be a once-over with Gold Bond. This, too, was a bad decision, I see in hindsight. The Gold Bond, while initially cooling and delightful, quickly turned into a medicated paste roughly the consistancy of spackle. It only increased the friction, the pain, and the shame.

The sensation is off-putting at best.

I hope to shower very soon. I will as soon as these three Hispanic gentlemen leave my soon to be former home.

Tomorrow I leave Chicago, and perhaps I will never live here again. Though I've said that before.

Analogcabin @ 4:42 PM
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