Poor Hygiene

Fridge handle or front door, or maybe the button on the stereo. Poor hygiene and now the affliction of it.

“Can you get some milk on your way back,” Frank asks shamelessly, both hands on the games console. Maybe it was on the Wii?

Microscopic in egg form, they hide in every unseen corner, waiting to be digested from dirty hands even though you scrubbed as a child, a mother’s words about proper hygiene and the lack of it.

Now a godforsaken trip to the all-night pharmacy, in the snow, on my bicycle, for a 24-hour fix from those little anus-based threadworms – little white guys that tickle and force embarrassing moments that you never forget.

“Fuck you Frank, you dirty bastard!”

the constant itching,
job interview tomorrow,
anxious already.