I broke out in a blister like rash on Christmas day. I don’t know about you, but blistering sounds biblical to me. Today, after allergy medications didn’t seem to be making a dent I went to the hospital and was informed I had shingles. Or the plague, they weren’t overly specific.
Still given that I’ve been having deep joint pain down one side of my body for a few days it’s pleasant to know that I’m not having a stroke.
I’m trying not to think about it, because thinking about it really grosses me out. So I’ve been trying to focus on other things, like more bubbles. Even plague victims like bubbles.
And then it all goes horribly down hill when I had the following conversation with well-meaning but clearly misguided husband.
Him: I’m going to bed
Me: I’ll have a shower before bed, I won’t be far behind you.
Him: Are you going to give your shingles a good soak?
Me: Don’t say that, that totally creeps me out
Him: What do you mean?
Me: Your refering to it as a thing, an object. That totally creeps me out (my voice goes up about ten octaves)
Him: I’m sorry (repeats his previous statement without offending language)
Me: I’m creeped out – now I’m thinking of it like an alien coming out of my back!
Him: OK. OK.
Unring the bell. Unring the freaking bell.
My name is Zoey. 
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BTW, you...
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