Scratch That

Hello,

I'm blogging at 2.30am on a workday because I'm covered with (GASP) rashes all over. Yes, I am diseased, infected, impure. Please just stone me to death. They're lumpy, itchy and red all over. Okay, using "they" is just an attempt at alienating the condition when it's actually "Me". I'm lumpy, itchy and red all over, and even my eyes are swollen with lumps. What's worse is that the swelling will all go down tomorrow and I won't be able to manage an MC despite being tortured overnight. Allergies are like lawyers that way.

First thing anyone says in response to knowledge of my rash-infested body is "Don't scratch them.". Yeah sure, that command comes easy when you're not covered in burning boils that fidget like recruits moving in file. 

It's not the first time, anyway, so I'm not panicking. That doesn't make it less irksome or disconcerting and distracting either. I feel like a walking plague, 
except I can't even fulfil my plaguish purpose in life because allergies aren't contagious. 
Dammit where's the fun in it if I can't infect the population of the world with this dread 
virus? No wait, it ain't even a virus - it's just some lousy genes that I'm supposed (according to 
the doc, who can't do anything about it) to grow out of. The only *Slight* comfort is that sis had 
it when she was young and so that proves we're siblings and I'm not adopted. Hooray!

Anyway, about adoption. Sometimes I wish I were really adopted, so that the parental authorities would actually attempt to treat me like I were their own. Being not-adopted, there's no pressing need for them not to treat me like I am. Convoluted argument but pretty savvy, I must say.

I'm really just blogging to take my mind off the rash. Makes sense that if I'm not thinking of them, they're not thinking of me either and so won't put so much effort into making my life a torment right? I don't know. I'm just following what it says on the Guide To Dealing With Bullies. Which is what rashes really are, right? Right.

If only. Anyway (I seem to abuse that word),

Sometimes it is so hard to forget, I wonder if our necks were made just so we can turn and look back while going forward.
Maybe we're just not designed to forget. After all, the ability to whinge and moan is pretty much
the domain of our Great Race, so why not bask in it? Okay, I'm just bitter because I can't get over this one thing, and that I'm getting this recurring rash (Yes, it happens every few months. Now do you Still want to be me?). But hey, so what? Longing and suffering is part of being alive, so yeah, maybe it's good that I am.

That just reminds me of that time during Patrol Field Camp when I earned my Observation Report (for those uneducated in army lingo, it's not a good thing) for saying "Hey, maybe it's not such a bad thing that they're late."

There is thrill in the new, comfort in regularity and nostalgia in the old.

Back to scratching...