Flowers are trying to kill me.

When I wake up in the morning, I can tell immediately that something is wrong.  While I can open my eyes, they dont do so to the regular limits, instead stopping roughly two-thirds of the way open, lending me a slight image of Manchurian heritage.  It is usually at this point that I utter a small string of profanity adn make a beeline for the bathroom, where there are pills taht make it so that I can open my eyes and exist without nose tissue for more than 5 minutes.

You see, the flowers are trying to kill me.

Ordinarily when people see spring begin, with its increase in sunshine and decrease in ass-cold, they are happy.  “Look at the pretty flowers” they say as huge splashes of color paint every corner of our little eden here in the Pacific North West.  And indeed it is pretty, unless you have to go out into it.

What that neat coloration and blooming greenery mean to me is doom.  Evey time a slight spring breeze blows ever so slightly through the rampaging flowers, I can see the clouds of wind-borne pollen making a beeline for my nose.  When I smell flowers, it does not make my brain think “aww, how pretty.”  Instead it makes my body think that there is something invading my systems and decides that my body should try to kill me, resulting in my walking around feeling as if my face is trying to detach itself from my head, propelled by the pressure  of the goo steadily filling every cavity above my neck.

So this is for you, ye multi-colored and nice smelling harbingers of sinotic doom:  I hate you.  I hate you with the flaming passion of a thousand flaming suns.  If it were up to me I would pave this city under a blanket of Agent Orange and Roundup, decomposing you and your anaphalaxis-inducing brethren to pulp and laughing as you rotted.

Then I would probably go blow my nose.