But when your bare feet are covered in a half dozen mosquito bites, such that the itching wakes you at 5:30am on a Sunday, and you blindly stumble to the medicine cabinet to soak your feet in Caladryl, you may find yourself wondering if "No Excuses" has a mosquito clause. And then, perhaps you might wonder, why did I have to stand so close to the bushes at that fancy party on the hill? And how did the mosquitoes know I was so tasty through my control-top pantyhose? Isn't that stuff tough to bite through? There were easier targets. And look, the Caladryl expired one-year ago, will it give me a skin disease?
Don't mind me. I'll just be sitting here, rocking back and forth, dutifully repeating "No excuses," as I most definitely do not scratch, even though it is the only thing in life worth doing, because wouldn't it be so sweet and nice if I could lightly drag my fingernails around the red bumps and thus satisfy this dark urge?
Would you please tell Jer that I can't pack any boxes or be productive all day, because I'm sure I have West Nile. Or maybe the plague. You can't expect me to be productive with that kind of dark cloud hanging over my head.