Crabby.

I’m intensely irritable, and even moreso than usual, it is not a good look on me. For the past three days, I have been the host to large red and ultimately white welts, some smaller and others bordering on the size of nickels and quarters. Urticaria, the Internet tells me they’re called, what we members of the bourgeoisie refer to as hives, and they’ve been my companions for the weekend. Like most maladies and out-of-town guests, they didn’t arrive at a decent hour, but instead struck in full force at 3:30 Friday morning, ravaging my hands and then feet and then thighs. I didn’t know until that desperate moment just what it would take for me to leave my apartment without a shower. I also didn’t know just how far the closest 24-hour CVS would be from my apartment. Or that my pony-tailed, bespectacled self would not be alone. It’s amazing how many of us buy salves and instant coffee and greeting cards at 4 a.m.

The offenders put themselves on hold for a few gracious hours yesterday, long enough for me to have some Corot Noir in the sunshine as well as Kee Mao, both of which I have since realized only make the relentless bastards more determined. As payback for my rash behaviors, they have since taken over my belly and chest and the backs of both arms. CVS therefore got another $31 of my newly-deposited paycheck earlier this morning, courtesy of frantic purchases of calamine lotion and oatmeal bath packets and enough diet coke to sustain me until the irritants have left the building.

Between scratching frenzies I’ve used my powers of deduction to narrow the allergens down to crab balls consumed on the most recent meet up with the boy. Know that I am a woman who seldom dates and almost never eats shellfish, so I’m pretty sure I should continue to steer clear of both for a while. Given all of the irony and the itching, I’m betting the Universe is trying to tell me something.