On both of my feet and ankles combined, I have twenty-seven mosquito bites. I don't know when I got these--or why they are primarily located on my feet, when, over the past week of summer heat, about 65-70% of my flesh is exposed at any given time.

What I do know is how addicts must feel. Whether sex, steroids, or shopping, addictions take over the brain, become obsessions, cause otherwise rational people to act impulsively and uncontrollably. And that's how I feel . . . about scratching.

It's all I can think about sometimes. Whether in the midst of a group of friends, talking and laughing, or watching an enthralling movie, all of my mental energy is concentrated on my ankles and feet. I try to hold out longer, try to disassociate myself from the feeling, pretending that my legs stop beneath the knee, but soon the urge becomes insurmountable. So I give scratch--just a teeny one. I know it's bad for me. My ankles are red, raw, and swollen; some of my bites are bleeding. But I am compelled.

And, as any chain-smoker knows, one teeny scratch doesn't cut it. I think it will--I believe that it will stave off the urge just enough so that I can control it. But instead the floodgates are open and a minute later I'm still scratching, enjoying it as much as a purring cat, basically drooling while my bites are getting more puffy and irritated.

To control the scratching, I've tried some other remedies: Hydrocortisone, in two different concentrations. Spray-on Benadryl. Elevating my feet so that blood drains from them. Ice. Soaking my feet in a mixture of oatmeal and milk. Whining. Sheer willpower. But nothing works. Not even amputating my feet.