In all honesty, for anyone who doesn't know my family history I'll just toss it out there: I had an ice cube's chance in hell to actually have been born. So, go me! And while it's neat to think that my family had the resilience to survive the black plague, I wonder how fast I'd crumble since I can't even manage to combat the smallest most common-est common cold out there.
This is what I ponder as I lean over the bathroom sink to wash my hands after having just dispelled the grossest, most gnarly loogy I could have imagined coming from my own body. But wait, there's more! The surprises of being sick just keep on coming. And in the shape of blistering cold sores.
Oh, cold sores, how I loathe thee. Because it's not like I have a sexually transmitted disease, what I have, in fact, is a disgusting reminder that my immune system sucks. But instead of the empathy and compassion that I deserve, what everyone reads on my face is a pulsing red flag screaming, "I'm the baby cousin of genital herpes! Isn't that GROSS?" Yes, tiny demon virus. It is gross. Now go away.
Please excuse me now while I go grab some tissues and a cup of tea.
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