Robin Thicke has worms. Little white worms that live up his anus and itch his anus and make him scratch his anus. He has been to the drug store for the cure countless times, but he keeps getting hung up and embarrassed. He simply cannot bring himself to take the worm medication to the counter. He sees the worm medication, he picks up the worm medication, he becomes flushed and sweaty, he mutters 'idiot, IDIOT' to himself, and then he flees. But he does not leave the drug store altogether. Feeling the need to justify his presence there, he first scoots over to the condom section and picks himself up a box. Always ribbed. He winks unsubtly at the checkout person and then he's gone. Another defeat. In this way he has accumulated thirty-six boxes of condoms. They are stacked up at the back of his walk-in wardrobe, at the end of a long row of fancy shoes made from expensive Italian leather, still in their cellophane wrappers.
He cannot ask someone to pick up the medication on his behalf; he cannot risk anyone knowing, not even an old friend or bought female companion. Nobody has told him he can shop online using his Samsung Galaxy or special gold and red ipad. And for every day this goes on, the parasites multiply within him, roughly doubling in number every twelve days. He is rife with parasites. Robin Thicke has a big itch.
Robin Thicke is scratching his anus. Now there is a worm on the tip of his finger. He contemplates it with disgust. 'YOU,' he says to the worm. It is the sound of all his frustrations. Then another 'you', this time wan and pathetic. There is a lamp with a halogen bulb next to his bed. It gets very hot. He puts the worm on the bulb and watches it burn. It is a bright bulb, and for a while after he sees the burning worm whenever he closes his eyes.