I've even considered that the super secret ingredients of my latest addiction, Sugar Free Rock Star, is rusting my innards. I mean, what the hell is Guarana, and can I trust that it isn't causing me to gouge myself to skin layers well below freckle level?
I've been bathing in oatmeal-infused washes, then slathering on enough Hydrocortisone that I could feasibly slide my entire body into the cavity of a chicken. This dulls the itch for awhile. Then, suddenly, I'm ripping away at my skull like the star of a Public Service Announcement about the evils of H.
I actually like to believe that this is either psychosomatic itching, or something supernatural is afoot. These are far more mysterious, dare I say sexier, options. Woman itches her way out of her own body, and starts new life as Halloween decoration. Or, tiny evil motes drill way to surface of woman's skin; she frees them with a hearty thrashing of nails, flicking her own skin dust into the couch.
Hey! Have you guys ever stood in front of a bunch of lotions at Walgreens and Google Imaged psoriasis and eczema on your iPhone to try to self-diagnose your animal behavior? And then moved skittishly away from the other person in the aisle who was doing the same thing? Me too.