Down the rabbit hole

Sunday, May 1, 2011

This allergy's being an itch

If my memory serves me right, I've been clawing at my skin for the past 16 hours. Now my skin is warm and splotchy red. I don't know, maybe I've finally found a real allergy? See, ever since, I've always believed I was bionic for not having any allergies. I'm not sickly either. Like, I've never been one of those people who treat a hospital like it's a hotel. Sounds ridiculous, I know, but such people exist and I'd like to think it's all deeply rooted in some fetish for unflattering lighting, inadequate cable TV, and the frustration of realizing real-life nurses don't give sex as part of therapy. So much for their porno dreams. So much for my bionic ones as well.

See last night, during my cousin's baptismal reception, I ate a shit load of dessert by Bizu. And when I say "shit load", I'd like to specify that it was an elephant's shit load. I actually reached the point where I actually couldn't look at the dessert in front of me. Like when a guy and a girl have too much sex in a span of a few hours. Looking, much less, physical contact would warrant a certain degree of aversion. Like that hair-raising, itchy feeling you get when you realize there's a bug on you. One bug, and yet you flail around and swat at yourself like you're in the middle of a locust plague.

The redness and the itching started sometime before I pushed my dessert plate away in disgust. I have a few theories.

1. Palms are itchy. I'M GETTING PAPER. It's an old saying, isn't it? Itchy palms means money's on its way. YES PLEASE. I need money. My dad halving my weekly allowance has been driving me up the wall. So is this his attempt at controlling my leisure, hmm? Well, well, well! I'll have you know, father, that it's… effective. Congratulations, you and your wallet successfully have me by the neck. Go fist-bump each other now.

2. Too much sugar makes me itch. I don't know how high my blood sugar levels rocketed last night, but itching is usually a diabetic's problem. So… this isn't really a theory then. It's more of me pondering possibilities. No, I'm not diabetic. Not in danger of being one either. I'll have you know I eat healthy.

3. I'm meant to die by my own hand. LITERALLY. Dear manicurist whom I thought was a total mediocre newb, I applaud you and the sturdy work you did on my fingernails. Despite hours and hours of scratching, they still look as good as new. Then again it's not like I'm scratching tree bark, but I'm pretty sure I'm capable of scratching myself to the bone.

So here I am, sleep-deprived with red scratch marks all over, verging on asking my mom to bind me in a strait jacket. I need to get back to reviewing for my boards. D-day's in 60 days and 16 hours, by the way. As soon as this post is up for you little devils to read, I'm gonna be shoveling Bioethics into my brain. I bet nowhere in any ethical code does binge dessert-eating justify incessant itching. Lord have mercy. :(

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