Why Pink-Eye Will Be the Death of Me

I’m an itch-er by nature. Have a bug bite? I’m gonna scratch it ’til it dies. Had chicken pox when I was young, and my mom threatened duct tape because I was so evil with the scratching, and have the scars to prove it.

So when my children forcefully held me down and gave me I caught pink eye over a month ago, I swore it was going to freaking kill me dead.

I would stare at my reflection daily, at my poor, red-eyed version of myself, cursing at my eyes. What do you MEAN I couldn’t scratch it? Like, not at all? No scratching allowed whatsoever? What the hell kind-of crap is that?

Oh, how I wanted to ravage my eye balls, OHMYFREAKINGSTARS the itch made me want to rubrubrubrub all. the. time. So, I danced around my eye, moving the lid around a little, tickling the itch but not giving in. I massaged my temples, squinting and opening, and dammit, it wasn’t working! I then moved onto the drops, the drops that supposedly “helped the itch” and redness, and so I leaned back to let them in, and ohh, they tickled as they trickled and they made my eyes want more because they inadvertently ran along the itchy spots. Oh no! There was a drop in the corner! I had to grab a piece of tissue and dabdabda-rubrubrub … ohhhhhh NO! Lisa, no! Stop Don’t stop! Ahhh! Crap.

So when I woke up yesterday morning to find not one but TWO of my children have it again, all I did was feel my eye twitch, and remember the battle royale I had. Not again, dammit.

It’s going to be the death of me, I swear it.

(By the way, doing shots of Dimetapp to kill the itching canNOT be good for your health, right? Ha!)