She figured that if anyone saw her like this, laying flat on her back on her bed, arms wide, hair spread, and staring at the ceiling-that she would look like a depressed person. But that wasn’t it. Today was one of the itchy days. She wore her life like a wool sweater–comfortably for long periods of time, interrupted by periods of intense itching and the desire to pull it over her head for awhile, She thought that the sweater analogy was horrible. It was just one of the nights that staring at the stucco on the ceiling is about the only thing she could possibly do that wouldn’t irritate her. So there she lay, an impotent thunderstorm, her pulse reminding her of a cursor.