Dear Tourette’s…

Posted: June 7, 2011 in Tourettes
Tags: , , , , , , , ,

It’s almost that time of year again. We both love it, and yet, apparently, some of us also hate it. And that “some of us” is you, Tourette’s.

That’s right, summer approaches. Well, sort of. I mean, whatever passes for summer up here in the north approaches. But even though it’s only a few months’ worth of mild warmth, it still pushes the mercury up high enough to cause me to sweat, particularly since it’s so humid out here on the West Coast.

Whoa! Easy! Take ‘er eeeeaaasy, Tourette’s. Just chill out. I know you hate this whole sweat malarkey. I mean, I thought you’d be used to it by now, given how much of a sweaty fuck I am in all conditions, but I understand that summer heat (even if it’s “heat” in scare quotes) makes things a lot worse.

It’s the sticking thing that seems to get your goat. I’m not sure why you’re so freaked out by shirts sticking to the nape of my neck, sleeves sticking to the underside of my arms, or pants sticking to my crotch, but there’s no denying that these things do freak you out. Under average sweaty conditions (where “average” means “way more than most human beings for some unfathomable reason”) you’re already irked. For example, onlookers often catch me thumbing and tugging at my crotch like I’m practicing my best Michael Jackson moves, but that’s just me trying to alleviate your misery, knowing that the tics are just around the corner. You blackmail me with the possibility of the perv swerve, you bastard.

That’s annoying, yes, but that’s just when conditions are normal. Turn up the heat a little, crank out a bit of sweat, and shit suddenly goes ape. Where you usually throw me a bit of a shoulder shrug, when summer sweat hits, I’m suddenly grabbing at my sleeves like they’re snakes gulping me down whole. My collar turns into a neck shackle that I’m constantly chafing against. I’m so fidgety it looks like someone’s playing me in fast forward. Yup, when sweaty season hits, I turn into a Charlie Chaplin movie, only it’s not funny. (Actually, Charlie Chaplin movies aren’t funny either, but I guess that’s one of them “eye of the beholder” thingies…)

So this summer, can we maybe reach a truce? I know you can’t help being you. I know your weird random triggers are going to be there no matter what. But can we both just accept that sticky clothes are sticky clothes no matter how hot or humid it is outside? And if sticky’s always the same no matter how hot it gets, can we also accept that there’s no need to get more twitchy when the sun’s beating down and all the pretty girls in their pretty skirts are casting their pretty eyes in my direction? Because I’m tired of looking like there’s some maniacally laughing kid controlling me from afar with a radio remote. “Huh huh, look at what I can make him do! Huh huh, look, he’s flapping around like a drunk bat! Hhhuhhhhh hhhhhuuhhhhhh!” Fuck you, kid!

Feel me, Tourette’s? That shit just isn’t sexy. In fact, in a city rife with homeless drug addicts, it looks kind of sketchy, as I’ve explained before. Nothing against any of these homeless people, but looking like I’m trying to score a hit won’t help me score anything else. Including a date.

Let me put it this way: if I wanted to clear the room and alienate any potential maker-outers, I’d just fart a lot. I’m not planning on farting in public if I can avoid it, so just do me a favor and chill the fuck out this summer, okay? Thanks.

Sweatily yours,
Bezuidenthustra

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