Diary of a Desperate Need for Salves and Emollients

Check it out! The flowering eroticism of my bare upper-thigh areas is making things shimmer with sexual vibrations so strong you can practically smell 'em!
Well, OK, that's a lie. Actually I was just sittin' on the can a few minutes ago here at work and marveling at how the excess solar radiation pouring out of my legs was making the tag on my fancy new underwear glow. And, uh, I thought maybe I'd, um, share, so I snapped a pic with my phone and right now, right this second as I'm typing this, I'm thinking I probably should've done some more thinking after thinking it was a good idea to put this photo here on the Internet. Things have changed from the old Bad News Hughes days. The Boss gets mad at me for just about anything related to a public display of my crotch. Sheesh! She'd get along great with my square ol' buzzkill of a parole officer, huh?

Anyway, The Boss gets mad at me for all kinds of stuff. Saturday when I got this rad sunburn she got all mad at me because I walked too fast from the parking lot to the edge of the lake, despite me carrying 900 pounds of folding chairs and sun canopies and coolers and backpacks and sandwiches and shit and really having to go pee. After dropping that stuff off I turned around and The Boss was maybe 16 feet behind me, and I hustled over to help her with the light-ass blanket and eeny-weenie bag of yarn and crochet stuff but she yelled at me to get away and hollered for like six minutes that I had bad manners and shouldn't have left her behind and blah blah blah.

"It's not her talking, it's the menses," I whispered to myself. "The menses, the menses. Remember, the menses." I walked by some kid while doing this and he started to cry and ran off. Man, he thinks he's freaked out by the menses now — just wait.

Were were at this damn lake in the first place because Tessa was rowing in some regatta. Her rower gang (or "crew") is pretty cool — relatively speaking, because rowing is a preppy-ass rich-kid hobby from the get-go, Tessa's group is like the gang of plucky misfits from the wrong side of the tracks, going up against the moneyed snobs whose mean banker/university president father wants to foreclose on their ramshackle clubhouse and kick them out of school and so this is like the scrappy underdogs last chance to pull together and show all those poncey lads that nerds can be cool too. At least that's the way I like to think about it. Tessa's view may differ, I dunno. (I never listen when she talks.)

While I'm sitting there turning my legs into a cancer farm and refusing to put on lotion just to spite The Boss I always try to get Tessa and her rower gang to adopt plucky misfit strategies from '80s movies and scuttle enemy boats with crossbows or get a compromising photo of the rival team captain making out with a sheep for blackmail, but they all ignore me. I think next regatta, though, I'm going to strap a shark fin to my head and swim out there and see if I can't bum out some of the enemy rich kids or something, because parents need to be involved in kids' lives. You know?