Cut off even in the blossoms of my sin

For years I’ve enjoyed a host of surely spectacular undiagnosed allergies. I’ve peered out into the slim world with eyes that ranged from dewy to tropical storm, fighting off the occasional headache with mighty occasional, sneezes, as a vile slime slid out of my head and down the back of my throat.

I’ve treated these symptoms with a scientifically designed cocktail of zyrtec (on again off again), the rare ibuprofen, the even rarer aspirin, the extremely rare (according to me) although constant (according to my wife) bitching and complaining, coffee, hot tea, beer, whiskey, and rugged American individualism.

But the time has come for me to give in and do what I have threatened to do a number of times. This past week or so my eyes have burned like hell, and I was up all of last night and most of this morning with an angry sore throat. And so I shall do that thing which I feared someday I must, I am going to make an appointment with an allergist.

It’ll be interesting to find out what is getting me all snotty and shitty (shnotty? shnitty?). I imagine it’ll be something like “houses” or “people” or “air.” If not those maybe something like “bread and beer,” or “porn and cheese,” or all foods except Brussels sprouts and canned spinach.

The cure will no doubt involve giving up everything fun and cool in the world and a move to some luddite commune in the no wifi dunes of the remotest desert. Well whatever it will be good to know I guess and hopefully to take a step or two to feel better.

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