Since there has been a case of the flesh eating disease reported on the Island this past week, I, the hypochondriac, keep convincing myself that I have it. It’s easy to convince myself, since I have eczema, and anytime I come in contact with an allergen (which is often, since I’m allergic to friggin everything), I break out in hives. Rob hates it. I run into the room and pull down my pants. “Look at my necrotizing fasciitis!”
“What?”
“Look! Right there!”
“Louise. You don’t have it.”
“LOOK AT IT! It’s necrotizing before our very eyes!”
“You do not. have. the flesh-eating bacteria.”
“How do you know? I could have it. I could have it RIGHT NOW.”
“If you had the flesh eating bacteria you would not be able to run into the room and pull your pants down. You would have a high fever and you would die within 24 hours unless they amputated your body parts. You don’t have it.”
“FINE THEN!”
He’s gonna be sorry one day when I come down with the bubonic plague and he tells me it’s just a pimple.
Okay. All kidding aside. I’ve put up a few new (old) photos over at flickr. Check them out if you are so inclined.
Oh, gack. I don’t suppose I ever mentioned that rom actually HAD A VERSION OF NECROTIZING FASCIITIS two summers ago.
It was the most highly disgusting thing ever. It attacked her legs. And she took photos of her legs. And she sent those photos to people via email. And one of those people was my father, who wrote to me privately to express his, shall we say, distaste.
His exact words: “Not something I needed to see.”