Swimming in the Leprosy!

I am a filthy fucking homeless man. I have a rash. Who gets rashes? Homeless men and me, that's who. What kind of scabies-having bag of disgusting am I? Seriously, nothing makes me feel dirtier than having a rash except when I pay hookers to squeeze out a Cleveland steamer on my chest (Thanks, Tenacious D). But even that doesn't make me break out in a rash like this. It's basically on my right arm from my armpit to halfway down my forearm.

I figured out how I got it as well which is even weirder. For Christmas, some friends of mine bought me a new 12-string guitar: a very cool present. So, the other night, I took some time to tune it and, while tuning it and subsequently breaking a string doing so, apparently whatever magic oil they put on brand new guitars got all over my arm and my skin hated it so bad. So bad.

What kind of oil would that be that would make me react like that? I looked it up on Wikipedia and it seems that they rub it down with a mixture of old band-aids and a soup made from blended New York City public toilet seats.

Thursday at work I noticed it and freaked the hell out. I couldn't stop thinking about it. See, my mind is kind of obsessive. I'm not what you'd call a hypochondriac, but probably only if you didn't know what that word meant. If you did know that word, maybe you'd use it to describe me. I mean, I have a goddamn rash. People who live by rivers and eat giraffes get rashes. I live by a Ralph's and eat Cap'n Crunch.

It's going away now, but now I can't play my brand new guitar. I'm going to have to wear a HazMat suit to get my "Since You Been Gone" on.