This was a descriptive paper for english class, my teacher grooved on it and used as an example. I liked it, lived it, and now share it. Entitled "I have an Itch."
At A Glance Author Joshua Paul Contact josh40000@hotmail.com IAM josh40000 When Six months ago Artist Steve Studio Cape Fear Location Greenville, NC The masochist inside me demands to be let out for strolling privileges. Who am I to deny such a small pleasure? I wait, salty perspiration beads on my forehead enveloping me in a slick, warm embrace. My heart keeps rhythm with the God-drums, threatening tachycardia. But, who am I to deny such a menial pleasure?
I know what it is to wait, to be made to wait. I tend to get antsy if I ignore the rapidly building crescendo: it begins with the subtle pace of one revolving a dimmer switch, or the beginning pangs of opiate withdrawal. If delayed, my mind is flooded with bright flashes of lightning, just daring to be taken for granted. My metaphysical skin is dances with gremlin-esque creatures that won't stop their boogie until the music stops. The creatures scream for blood, damn them, and who am I to deny such a simple pleasure?
I shuffle into the nearest trusted source of voluntary impalement, greeted by music in competition with my steadying pulse-rate, its tune unfurling in my ears. Pleasant, yet foreboding smells waft into my nose: the scent of every hospital. It's comforting, although horridly wrong like a gas-chamber decorated in bright floral patterns. My muscles tense, awaiting battle; the gremlins persist, nudging me forward like a reluctant toddler on his first day of school. "I want you to punch me in the ear!" The piercer flashes an all-too-aware smile, "That's a bit odd dontcha think?" He hands me the obligatory paper-work and I retort in fervent agreement. I prepare for the worst, yet expect the best: I need it as much as those bothersome little creatures, yet they'll never catch wind of the fact. Having a partner in crime in matters as these would be catastrophic. Synergy is not welcome, as one would be tempted to take the path most traveled.
He asks if I'm ready, pulling me back into reality, only to be propelled into nothingness in a few, short moments. He thoroughly preps my ears, scrubbing with a substance likened to blood; a surgical marker kisses my ear for good-luck, and placement. I begin deep, relaxing breaths to focus the body and mind, preparing for the shock. I lie down on a table, like that of doctor, and the left side of my face slapping a high-five with crinkly tissue paper. The creatures observe in delight, like children watch a horror film: peeking through their eyes, terrified, yet incapable of glancing away for even a moment.
As the circular scalpel plunges through my ear, coring out one-fifth of its surface area, my mind and body separate as layers of oil in water in a test-tube. I'm filled with an intense, euphoric light: after-images of flashbulbs tattooed on the retinas. I'm aware, only in passing of a noise: "pfffink!", the sound of a mechanical bird with pneumatic wings, as heard through water. I fall off my cloud, my body rushing up from the ground to meet my ego. I feel a wet, tacky caress as blood flows and pools in the reservoir of my inner ear. I am met with a standing ovation from the pesky creatures, and the piercer alike.
My palms are lathered with sweat; tiny smiles dot the inside of my fist where fingernails fed, intersecting my life-line like a map with the wrong routes scribbles in Crayon. My head is captive to talons of white-hot heat, as I meet eyes with the waxy chunk of excised flesh. It glares at me accusatorily: "Look what you've done!" Yes. Look at what I have done!
Bad vibes drained in a karmic blood-letting, like a thermometer vomiting poisonous mercury. It archaic, brutal, but effective; I've experienced what most are horrified by: submission, and embrace of physical pain. I find taboos are mostly subjective; I am questing for objectivity.
People curiously ask everyday, "Does that hurt?!" I reply lovingly that it is quite painful, but it does not hurt. As I leave the site of my Reckoning, giving the leering Aztec mask a triumphant salute, blood cakes my face like cock-eyed war paint; really it is: a declaration of war upon my senses. I jump in the air, clicking my heels to the side. I attempt a blissful hoot, yet am speechless, not yet rediscovering my voice. The masochist inside me is docile and napping, doped to the gills on endorphins. The gremlin creatures have noticed the red light and have hanged their tapping shoes up for the evening. For those who still inquire of mutilation and brutal torture, no answer would ever suffice, but I have found my means to an ending. Besides, who am I to deny such a pleasure?