Oh Gentle Readers, Here it is so early in the morning and your Lovely Lola cannot sleep. I have the itchy prickles and three antihistamines have not made them go away.
I believe I have mentioned in the past that I have extremely sensitive skin. Well, it's at its sensitive worst tonight, or, I guess today. At least it's cold enough -- and man is it cold here in the hinterlands -- that the mosquitoes have finally stopped whining in my ear. I don't wake up in the morning with new bites now -- just with scratch marks from raking my nails down my itchy legs, neck, stomach, back, arms, whatever. You name it, it itches.
A dermatologist once explained to me that many people who have sensitive skin get itchy at bedtime because changing your clothes and/or having sheets against your skin aggravates the little nerve endings and they scream, I ITCH LIKE A BITCH. Then the scratching starts and the no sleeping never ends. It doesn't matter that my jammies and sheets are soft cotton, just like the clothes I wear. Tonight I can't stand them. Tomorrow night they might be fine.
That same dermatologist also told me that I had the most sensitive skin she had ever seen. Maybe she was just trying to make me feel important and special. But she said that when she ran her finger across my back that I broke out in hives.
While I lie in bed and scratch, though, words run through my head. I write the most spectacular poems. They are the greatest poems ever written. But somehow when I put them on paper they are no longer so great. What is it about being itchy that makes me think I'm the best poet on the planet?
There are some things we simply are not meant to know.
Infinities of love and prayers for safe and restful sleep,
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