I lost another one. Between when it lit &

I lost another one. Between when it lit & when I realized that I had passed it on the river & then completely forgot it all together, were mere seconds but aeons in transgressions.

I wonder why I let myself remember this sorry episode of my life. I thought I had learned all the bitter truths I needed from it. What more can it tell me now, after all of this ti

ckle torture? I haven't been a child for a long time, but the image of someone wriggling their fingers, closing in on me, sent shivers of fear down my spine. I know I'm ticklish,

& I also know that I suffer from PTSD: Post Traumatic Tickle Disorder. So don't wiggle your fingers at me, mister! STAY BACK, you hear?! There is no tellin' what I could do if you

tickle me!" The man considered his words. "First off," he started. "Post Traumatic Tickle Disorder would spell PTTD, surely. Secondly, I couldn't if i wanted. After all my hands

have been through I couldn't even open a peanut butter jar, let alone tickle a grown man." Bereft of tickles, the man shrank away like an ant under a magnifying glass. He wandered

off morosely muttering - How do you tell if a girl is ticklish? You give her a couple of test-ticles! over and over. I wanted to giggle at his little joke but knew it would be crue

l to see this girl suffer just because she was being ticklish. Sure, it was funny to others, but not to me. Cruelty is not going to be something I would like to do, especially to a

girl whose feet deserved to be admired rather than tickled mercilessly. The more she was tickled on those adorable feet, the HORNIER I got. I could stand it no longer. “OK, that’s

it. I'm scheduling an intervention for myself." But since I had no medical insurance, I had to make do with a quart of whiskey and a bottle of Benadryl.