I don't mean to turn this into a blog about the indignities of springtime allergies, which are LEGION, but which don't necessarily make for good readin'. ("Hey, dude! Get this! That blogger chick's gone through THREE boxes of kleenex in the last three days! She's HAWT!")
However. I do need to say this.
I have recovered from my jumping, dancing, screaming, sweaty evening of 30 Seconds to Mars joy only to be overtaken once again by the allergy demons. Oh allergy demons, how I hate you. I hate the way you make my eyes swell shut. I hate the way you make me hack and cough. I hate the sandpaper throat and inability to speak that you curse me with. You're like a little tiny army of bleaaaah and I loathe you and the fact that you're like Spring's entourage.
(I now picture the season of Spring as some J-Lo-esque diva. "No! I'm not going unless POLLEN'S allowed to go! Isn't that right, Pollen?" Pout. Hairtoss. Pollen stands nearby, hulking furiously, waiting to maul the immune system of any innocent person who dares to get near Spring. Earth sighs "Fine, but I'm telling you, everyone hates that guy.")
So allergy sufferers ... suffer.
And the allergy demons laugh.
And apprently, they think we (I) haven't been suffering enough because I just looked out the window to see the landscaper outside MOWING. Behind him, billowing up into the air in what can only be described as a mushroom cloud of allergy horror, is a yellow cloud of pollen and grass and other schmoo that makes me want to sneeze in self defence.
So, the pollen won't play nicely? FINE. I'm going to break out the big guns. I'm going to call in the professionals.
You know, as soon as my voice starts working again.