Alas, Poor Me

Sonsabitches.

After being bitten up by a million fire ants in Memphis: my feet swollen and intensely itchy and painful, hives inching their way across my chest, and the delightful side effects of Benadryl cracking me out; I invested in some topical corticosteroid cream and made sure I had an Epi-Pen at the ready to ward off anaphylactic shock.

God knows I won't die from a motherfucking, cocksucking insect bite. I absolutely refuse.

So I'm in Virginia Beach with Superfly, slathered in sunscreen and whooping it up in the sand and surf. Because I'm allergic to bug spray (naturally), there's no stopping the mosquitoes and spiders and whatever other creepy crawlers from feasting on my fair, freckled skin.

Those 20 or so bites are now the scariest wounds you've ever seen. I'm waiting for one of them to turn black, sprout pustules, and rot off a limb. Allergic to bug bites. How lame is that?

Clearly, I am not meant to spend any time outdoors. Not in the warm months--the bug jamboree--nor indoors during the cold months, when bug spray to control the little fuckers are napalmed hither and yon, interrupting my fabulously busy life with trips to the ER for life-saving injections. How nice. Is there somewhere I can live where insects don't like to live? The moon, you say? Excellent.

My aunt has an auto-immune disorder called Porphyria--you may remember a Julianne Moore movie called Safe, in which she battles the disease. Basically, you're allergic to absolutely everything and must live in a bubble. If I inherited that, on top of inherited bipolar disorder, inherited weirdo defected wrists, and a family history of huge tits, I'm officially quitting.

Clearly, my DNA is something of a cosmic joke. How nice.

Perhaps this whole bug allergy thing is payback for all the roaches I ignited with hairspray and a lighter, or maybe for the flowering tree we had in our yard growing up, from which you capture a bee in a flower and throw it at someone as hard as you could. Bug karma. Oh yeah? FUCK YOU, INSECTS.

Please, friends: murder every biting, stinging insect you encounter. Let no bee, wasp, yellowjacket, bad spider, bad ant, roach, tick, flea, or fly be allowed to roam or fly free.

Meanwhile, I'll be over here in my bubble, slathering anti-itch cream on myself and whimpering.