Too Much Information
Last night I happened to glance down at my own nipple and become trapped by the presence of wrinkled, irregular flesh. (My shower is rather pitiful and it takes a while for it to steam up to a reasonable temperature). Suddenly, the natural fluctuations of skin tone and hair follicle became anathema, horrid creepings of disease and rot and B-movie makeup, and I just wanted to scrub them all away with a good stiff wire brush until I was a pink, featureless lump, floating in mineral oil.
But this impulse was not actually strong enough to make me pick up a razor and shave my legs.