It's a hot, humid night. Ham for breakfast, ham for lunch, ham for dinner. Nicky kicked up a fuss because he wanted more noodles. So my wife cooked him another packet. He only took half of the second cooked portions; I had to decide whether to throw the noodles into the trash or into my guts. Guts won.

Trying to cut down on sugar. Am putting half a teaspoon less sugar in my coffee now and giving up the Coke (although one small gulp at night shouldn't hurt too much, eh?). I think sugar - sugar and fatty, meaty stuff - makes you sweat more, during and after your meal.

Not good for me anymore.

My non-metaphorical "thorn in my flesh" cuts deeper if I sweat (and I sweat a lot) - got a fungal infection ripping up one of my legs. The itch feels like ecstasy when you scratch. I shouldn't do it but it's tough to stop. Like sin, reason and good sense don't work. Because the sensations are too great to resist. Talk about being caged, about being a slave:

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do...for I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. (Rom 7)

Sounds like those mutants in X-Men 2 under the influence of Colonel Stryker. They can see what they're doing (attack the President, attack their loved ones, etc.) but they can't stop. And so guilt and remorse follow the unstoppable acts.

Fungus on your skin. Part of you, but it's not you. Because it's not you, every inch of your body reminds you of its prickly presence. Now that's weird - the alien gets the most attention? Or the invader gets the most suspicion? Where do we draw the line? And don't even try to "not think about it" - that's like putting a girly mag in front of a 15-year old and telling him "not to think about it".

Parasite. Full of bite. Some part of you wants it, craves it, longs for it. But the 'higher' part of you fights back, against the pleasure.

O, brother ass. Get a grip.