I spent the first 24 years of my life thinking all you allergy sufferers were a bunch of cry babies. Every time I heard someone complain about their symptoms, I assumed they were being a drama queen. Oh, the pollen that we’ve coexisted with for millennia is hurting your delicate little sinuses? I’m sure that’s tough. You’ve sneezed 80 times today? Stop bragging, the Guinness Book Of World Record guys aren’t around. Sure, sure you’re not crying. It’s tooootally just your allergies, you diva. I offered no sympathy, and honestly thought most of you were faking it for attention. And then it happened to me.
I woke up yesterday in a great mood. I had made it through another Chicago winter, and it was finally nice out. I had a day off from work, and you know what? I was going to celebrate with a walk in the park. Or so I thought. Immediately after I stepped outside and took a deep breath of the warm air, I felt something was wrong, but I shook it off. By the time I had walked the mile to the nearest park, I knew I had made the wrong decision. My head was pounding, and not just from all the Mimosas I had drank the day before. Every time I sneezed, my brain rattled, and I had sneezed more in the past half-hour than in my entire life. My face felt like a tiny boa constrictor had slithered up my nose, into my sinuses, and was doing it’s best to crush me from the inside out. My eyes were red and teary, as if I had gotten so stoned I decided to watch a Marley and Me and Old Yeller at the same time. In short, I was dying.
After falling into a deep WebMD hole and reaching out to every person I knew who worked in the medical field (two ex-girlfriends who were not pleased to receive my text), I finally resorted to my final hope; I called my mother. And she laughed at me. Even my quintessential Jewish mother, a woman who took me to the ER as a child for ailments that turned out to be turf burn, a wasp sting, and “a tummy ache,” didn’t even feel any worry about me being on death’s door. “Honey,” she explained over chuckles, “Those are allergies. Everyone has them. They probably just kicked in for you.” And that was it. At age 25, after a quarter century of life, I am finally just like all of you. My name is Nick Arcadia, and I suffer from seasonal allergies.
The past 36 hours have been hard on me, both physically and emotionally. I’m trapped in my house. The very air I breathe, the oxygen that gives me life, is tainted with a horrible poison. I’m no botanist, but I’m completely sure that every single flower in the state of Illinois is in bloom, and their pollen spores are all lodged in my sinuses. As you can tell from my tweet, I’m not holding up well.
If pollen is how plants breed, are my allergies literally mother nature skull fucking my sinuses? because it sure feels like it
— N (@noampao) April 25, 2017
The emotional pain is even deeper. My world has turned upside down. This whole time I’ve been giving all of your allergy-whiners shit, and now I’m the greatest allergy-whiner of all time. Every third sentence to my roommate has been a complaint about Mother Nature, spring, or “fucking bees.” My friends, who have all been on the receiving end of my allergy-related teasing, are ganging up on me in the group chat with a coordinated effort the likes of which I’ve never seen. At this point, my girlfriend is blatantly ignoring my texts. But none of that matters, because I’m staying indoors for the rest of spring. Until flowers’ bitch asses decide to stop jerking off into the air I breathe, I’m staying the fuck inside. I don’t know if my work will accept “the very planet we live on is trying to murder me” as a reason to not come in, but if not, I’m prepared to lose my job. Nothing matters except survival.
My life is now like that horrible Stephen King movie where Mark Wahlberg is being stalked by plants or some bullshit. I will eat nothing but Benadryl, and drink nothing but hot tea. I may purchase a gas mask. But I will survive. See you all a few weeks..
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