This lady is getting under my skin. Again. Again. Again.

She’s trying to poison me. On purpose.

Under the euphenism of “allergy testing,” she has spent all day disrupting the happy enclosure of my epidermis with a syringe. Her goal is to make little red circles that grow… I think. After my whole upper arm is marked by these shapes, I’m feeling an intense desire to go hunt buffalo, or mount a Harley.

At the moment, I’m getting high marks in “weed mix 1″ and “ragweed.” This helps my self-esteem, because earlier in the day I was identified as “boring” due to my lack of response to their serums.

Several of us — allergy mates, as it were — are confined together this day in a single room. For obvious reasons, they don’t allow pets in here, but the room would fit in perfectly at a vet’s office. The floors *and walls* are tile squares, and the place you sit while they administer the toxic material is cold metal. Even the ceiling is shiny, comprised of metal sheets. All the room lacks to be vet-worthy is the clitter-clatter of little claws on the hard surfaces.

Sitting against the walls of starkness, we are called one by one to mount the metal pedestal and endurejoy the injections. She Who Administers The Shots has eyes that light up when your raised sleeve indicates a reaction. I think it validates her existence.

I go back next Friday for more. Maybe more after that, who knows? Stay tuned. I may be allergic to you.

(Well, maybe it’s not that bad. Actually, she’s nice. They’re all nice. ALL RIGHT ALREADY. THEY’RE ALL NICE. EVEN THE OTHER PATIENTS ARE NICE, *OK?*)

Still, I may be allergic to you. I’ll let you know.