Wednesday, 5 November 2014
At some point it occurred to me that it would be a good idea to have another human being tell me my bug bites weren't as weird as I thought they were so I pulled up my pant leg and showed Jason my flea bites.
"Those aren't flea bites" he said, grabbing my leg and taking a closer look.
"Have you had chicken pox?"
"You know," he said, touching the bites, which are now red with a raised weird center that's less red "fleas don't bite like that. That, to me, looks like something with" and before he could go any further I yelled "STOP!" because I did not want to hear the word I knew was coming next.
And then he got up and washed his hands because he'd touched my bites and maybe now I AM GOING TO DIE YOU GUYS!!!!
They're not as itchy, so I think I'll just... kinda let it go and not go to the doctor like Jason suggested.
I might, instead, go to my Mom and have her look.
And she'll probably tell me to go to the doctor too and I'll ignore her too and then the two of them can talk at my funeral about how I never listen.
PS Stupid time change. Seriously.