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Stop Staring At My Horse Beach Short
An itch, also known as “pruritus,” was once believed to be a kind of pain. We now know that an itch is a discrete sensation equipped with its own neural circuit. An itch, used figuratively is also associated with an urge. “An itch” to do something, is a need or a want, and can be extremely agitating. The neural circuits that control itching are very similar to the ones associated with pleasure and cravings, including addiction. According to research, this might explain why scratching can be temporarily satisfying, but ultimately leaves the scratcher needing more. My own life has been altered by an itch, a parabola that continues to drive my impulses, agitating my past, present and future. Stop Staring At My Horse Beach Short
I found out I was pregnant right before leaving for a study abroad program in Rome. My husband, Jon, and I had just gotten married, and maintained a monthly average of about $300 between us, after rent and bills. We lived in an absurdly small third floor studio apartment in Brewerytown, Philadelphia with two very offensive pet doves that woke us up at dawn every morning with their mating. It was called a “one bedroom,” but it was really nothing more than a studio with a cheap dividing wall. All our appliances were miniatures, and our oven baked a mild smell of mothballs into everything it heated. We were still plodding through our protracted undergraduate degrees–he philosophy, me literature–and our life was haphazard, but light-hearted and affectionate.. We were nervous about being overseas for most of my first pregnancy. But, friends and family members encouraged me to go. It would be an “adventure.” So we went.
For the first few months, we lived in a gloomy Roman suburb with a brash German woman named Constanze who kept the house unbearably cold. The city suffered its first real snow storm since the 1940’s that winter and everything shut down. The day the storm hit we were unprepared, and had nothing but an ice cream cake in the fridge, on which we subsisted for a weekend. We relied on a single bus to get us from our homestay to downtown Rome. If we missed the bus, we missed our classes. We would take the bus several miles until it dropped us at the station on the Tiber River. From there we would walk a mile along the Tiber to get to our school. The closest grocery store to our home was a Carrefour, a two-mile walk roundtrip. We spent most of our time walking. I wore through two pairs of shoes in two months.