Hating on Hives

So I’ve been sick for awhile.  Nothing serious, just stuck in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering why me.  Why am I the one who gets a case of hives so bad that her face swells uplike a botched plastic surgery operation?  Whose skin is speckled with silver dollar sized welts that look as if she’s been dumb enough to tangle with a swarm of African Honey Bees? 

Yes, those are my lips.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, I’ve got you-know-what sickness so I’m throwing up and wetting my pants every 10 seconds.  Like Marisa Tomei once said, “You don’t appreciate bladder control until it’s gone.”

Now I’m not complaining (okay, I am), but seriously, making lemonade after 3+ months of this is hard.  Sam says to look on the bright side: I don’t have cancer.  My family hasn’t died in a tragic accident involving giants rats and a caved-in sewer line.  No reports of tsunamis are coming my way.  And I don’t eat garbage from public trashcans or take heroin for breakfast.  Yeah.  Okay.  I see his point.  But I also am not Petra Ecclestone who just bought the Spelling mansion for 85 million dollars at 22 years old.

So I’m looking for somewhere in the middle.  I’ll take living in my well, not-85-million-dollar-mansion if these darn hives would just go away.  I’d like to go out in public again!

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