So I discover a raised red bump on the back of my left arm, a little difficult to investigate, as I didn't dream that my neck was elastic. What I could see worried me. So my bathroom metamorphoses into a brightly lit doctor's examining room. Heavy on the chrome cabinets. And a portly, ebon haired, female doctor is examining it. She utilises one of those mirror visor, strapped to the head deals. She says, well it should be nothing unless there is......a...little....white....V. Dear lord you got the ( garbled word ) syndrome. She scans the rest of my body, and sure enough she finds three more little raised red bumps with a white letter V in the middle of them.

Then I'm watching a documentary on ( garbled word ) syndrome. If the extremely itchy red bumps are scratched, it will release toxins into my spinal column. Which somehow affects the pleasure centers of the brain, causing the infected host to have a orgasmic overload, which is absolutely stupendous, yet fries the pleasure centers permenantly so that a constant depression sets in. Also engaging in any activity that contacts the pleasure zones in the brain will cause the bumps to explode. See above for the consequences of that.

There is a salve.

Diligently applying the salve, watching the bumps fade slowly. A montage of daily temptations are thrown in my face. I start to scratch, I cuss myslef out, the bump is okay. Certain chicks are aware of the bumps, and knowing that since I have ( garbled word ) syndrome, that I would be able to service them like a pornographic cock god, since ( garbled word ) syndrome turns you into a masterful fuck beast. So they rub themselves all on me. Interestingly, I find it easy to spurn their advances.

As I sleep, in my dream, I begin to scratch uncontrolably at the searing itch. The toxins are unleashed, and my brain goes into heaven overload. I wake up, for real.

So, yeah. I think I should be studied. Preferably by a team of sultry, healthy sexual appetited female psycologists in low cut blouses, tight and short skirts, fishnet stockings, and fuck me strappy heels. Oh and they should all have those catty study specticles, so they can leer at me over the top of them, grrrowwwwwl. It would be more beneficial to have them right there in my bed so they can record my sleep visions immediately. I'm only thinking of advancing the realm of cranial sciences. Let the grant money flow in.