So, we meet again.
You seem to be the topic du jour on blogs, Facebook, news sites, and *shudder* Twitter these days. I bet you’re pretty proud of yourself.
I mean, not only have you forced me to spend all of my time outdoors looking like the Unabomber (because, you know, the hood and big glasses are the only things keeping the trees’ reproductive nastiness from completely covering every inch of my hair and skin), but you’ve also managed to suck a nice chunk of change out of my pocket and generously deposit it in the overflowing coffers of the pharmaceutical industry.
I must say, you have really outdone yourself this year. Claritin can’t touch you. The 24 hour relief I was promised quickly dwindled from thirteen hours to a mere four. I cannot open my windows to let any fresh air in, lest you assault me and set my lips burning and skin itching. This is especially problematic since there seems to be a mystery stink emanating from my refrigerator (and permeating my house) that I have, as of this writing, failed to locate. But I digress.
I made a valiant attempt to thwart you by employing some so-called immunotherapy. But, alas, not even the expensive local honey that I have forced myself to consume has lessened my misery.
Has anyone ever told you that you’re a total JERKFACE?
Great, now you’ve forced me to resort to name-calling…the last refuge of the outwitted. Oh, but Allergies, you haven’t beaten me yet. I still have a few tricks up my sleeve. And if all else fails, there’s always my movable plastic bubble plans (pollen-removing windshield wipers optional) (patent pending).
Yours truly Get bent,