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The package included two things I knew I would never, ever use. So vile and nasty and horrible were these "toys". They're not toys; they're torture devices. Torture devices that should be outlawed, I tell you.

If you think there is anything hot about feathered tickling devices, you are one sick motherfucker.

I have serious tickle issues. I absolutely cannot stand to be tickled. Don't even joke about it. If you act like you're going to tickle me, I will beat the ever-loving snot out of you. The threat of tickle-torture is the only thing that has every driven me to take a swing at anyone.

I'm sure this happened because, when I was really little, my sadistic 6-foot-tall aunt used to sit on me and tickle me until I'd pee my pants. "Oh, she loves it! She's laughing!"

Which reminds me: I need to punch her in the face when I see her next week, because I was never able to get in a good strike when I was a kid.

While there isn't a single part of my body that isn't ticklish, the worst of it is unfortunately concentrated between my belly button and knees. You can only imagine the problems this has caused. Oh, the guys I have smacked and/or kicked. I'm not into that. Really. It's just instinct. You go for a ticklish spot, and reflexes happen.

It does have its perks. I could probably beat the living hell out of any potential attackers without even thinking about it. And the ticklishness ensured absolutely no risk of an unwanted pregnancy during my teenage years. I eventually figured out that a little booze can go a long way in curing terminal ticklishness.

When I was ten or eleven, my mom was alterning a skirt for me. At one point she accidentally brushed the back of my knee and I fuckinig lost my shit. Every time she'd reach for me, I'd automatically rocket away from her, shrieking like a banshee.

"It's not too late to convert you to Catholicism," she told me. "We can get you all confirmed on time and maybe get you onto the fast track to a good nunnery."

Long story short: I probably should have mentioned all of this during my six-month stint in panic therapy.

Fast-forward to today. I was sitting at my desk while B. and Clara Jane played in our bedroom. I heard the pitter-pat of her footsteps running towards me and new words coming out of her mouth. Dreaded, awful, horrible words...

"Tickle Mama."

"TICKLE MAMA!"

"TICKLE MMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMMAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!"

I looked over my shoulder just in time to see my child, armed with a tickling sex toy in each hand, running towards me, feathers a-quiver.

I braced myself. Clenched my pelvic muscles tight to prevent any spontaneous bladder expulsions. Tightened my legs and arms in hopes that the instinct wouldn't send my limbs flailing akimbo at my sweet, small, sex-toy-armed child. Who will someday tell her panic therapist about this incident.