Scratch scratch scratch. What could that be? Pants chaffing? Someone grating cheese? No, no, it’s Ant picking at her fucking scab. Again. Almost compulsively.
(Actually, there’s no almost about it.)
The woman went for a run two weeks ago, as she posted on her blog, and fell on the road in front of her high school. Now a big fat fuck-off scab obliterates the offending knee.
Peas: (whilst watching Grey’s Anatomy.) Would you please refrain from picking your scab.
The Ant: I can’t help it. It’s driving me crazy, it’s itchy as all hell.
Peas: You’re dropping pieces of scab on the carpet.
The Ant: Don’t worry, the maid’s coming next week. Plus, it’s not like you to be concerned about things like scabs. On the floor.
(She peels off a large piece of scab and flicks it into the ashtray.)
The Ant: There, are you happy?
Peas: At least the windows are sparkling.
The Ant carries on picking…and flicking.
Peas: Dude, I’m gonna light your scab.
The Ant: With what? The toaster?
Peas: Bring your knee to the armrest. Now.
The Ant: No. Fuck off.
Peas: Crap. The maid fucking took it back to the kitchen! Wait. I have a lighter. I’m going to ignite your scab, show me your knee!
The Ant: No you crazy bastard. You’re not lighting anything that’s attached to my body. Unless…you wanna light my fire baby.
And then we graunched and went to bed.