An open letter to my brain.

Dear Brain,

I think you need to get your wires uncrossed and start learning to process gluten. I try and be patient, but you know as well as I do that patience is not a virtue you have blessed me with.

You must think it's really fun to tease me with the time-delay you have going on. Four whole days, without fail, that I'm allowed to think I have gotten away with something. And then BAM. Itch Central. Which is why four days ago, you should have been a little less excited about the prospect of a bagel. Really. It's just not nice.

Even if you could just adjust the feel-good meter attached to scratching, that would be great. Cause right now my shins, right elbow, neck, and forehead are all screaming for some nails to run vigorously across them.

I suppose I should thank you for making me a nail biter, which keeps my nails short enough to avoid doing serious damage to myself. But I'm not in the mood.

So screw you, brain. Why couldn't you be allergic to lamb? I don't really like lamb. Or veal? Or something else I refuse to eat. That would be perfect.

Seriously. With the amount of money I've wasted over the years on dermatologists and ointments and creams and medications to block the itch sensor in my brain...the time I've spent looking at labels to ensure I'm not buying anything containing wheat, oats, or barley...the deep longing I feel when I see the husband enjoying a delicious IPA...you'd think you could cut me some slack here.

One of these days I'm going to find someone nearby who specializes in allergy elimination, and then I'm going to make you go through some weird homeopathic new-agey crap. And it's going to work. And I'm going to celebrate with a loaf of sourdough. And a six pack of Sierra Nevada.

Take that.

Love,
Pammy