It’s all about finger itch. It’s a strange and powerful disease that can manifest itself in a variety of ways.

At first, finger itch got me addicted to the rock climbing. I climbed every weekend and every vacation, if weather allowed. I got reasonably good for an amateur without great athletic ability. Occasionally, accidents kept me away from the rock, causing my fingers to itch more. But, usually, within a few weeks or months I came back to the rock and life proceeded as usual.

A year and a half ago, I hurt a tendon in my elbow, and it has stubbornly refused to heal. Months and months passed by and I still couldn’t climb. Like with any other addiction, withdrawal from rock climbing can be quite painful. My fingers kept itching and my soul itched with them. The joy was slowly leaking out of my life and I started considering Prozac.

At some point, my girlfriend Yvonne took care of me in her small plump and capable hands.

“You can’t climb. I can’t watch you sitting on your ass and getting depressed anymore.” she said, “but you still can write. You like writing and you can write interesting stuff. You are just afraid of doing it seriously. You are afraid to fail. Start writing regularly, or I’ll kick your miserable fat butt till my foot hurts.”


Who am I to argue with my lovely muse? I started writing and, indeed, the intolerable finger itch attenuated somewhat. Yvonne was correct. The life acquired some meaning and light cautiously leaked back into my days.

I write. I took a couple of writing courses at Gotham writing workshop. They were quite useful and I learned how to avoid the most obvious dumb mistakes. Now, I screw my writing up in more sophisticated ways.

I write randomly. I don’t have any agenda, except for writing clearly and amusingly about whatever things come across my itchy fingers.

Read. Enjoy. Comment; I will be very grateful for negative and positive comments alike. If you like me, recommend me to your friends. If you don’t like me,… just don’t tell anybody.

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