Zombieism is a very serious disease (With DRAWINGS!)

So, the other day at work, I was walking back up to the office after a long day. The walk back is up a pretty steep switchback hill that already saps the soul out of me on a daily basis. Little did I know, today would be the day that things would get...

... a little bit worse.


I'm walking along, just trying to get up to the office, so I can put my stuff away and head home, when all of a sudden, something very-much-six-legged landed on my forehead. I felt the tiniest of pinches, almost indiscernible from the little buggy feet on my face.

Not shown: Me doing anything rage-inducing

Shown: Completely uncalled-for insect attack

Naturally, I had a mini-meltdown right there on the pathway. It was mostly internal, and over very quickly, but involved a lot of flailing at my face and trying to see if the insect that had ruthlessly tried to kill me was coming back for a second pass. I was the giant in ENDER'S GAME, and I feared that the little gnat of a warrior was going to figure out how to win.

Luckily, I made it back to our office unmolested, thanks to my superior ninja skills (not shown). It wasn't without a cost, though. Without having seen the insect responsible, I was pretty petrified.

See, I have a secret, guys.

I... I might be allergic to bees.

*cue loud gasp*

Okay, here's the thing. The last couple of times I have been stung, my reactions have been getting progressively worse. Last time, my whole arm swelled. I am pretty paranoid about being stung again (let's be honest: I'm pretty paranoid about every freaky way you can die), and you have to understand how unfair it was to be stung where I couldn't even see the bug responsible and figure out if I needed to be walking up the hill or, like, running.

So I get to the top, and I haven't, you know, keeled over dead. Yet. I go into the bathroom to see if I have an emergency or just a bad day, or both. And this is what awaits me:

Looking back, it really wasn't THIS bad

I did the walk of shame to my boss' office, where she promptly told me to go to the medic. Those words were like balm to my ravaged, panicky ears. A medic. Someone who could SAVE me, should my throat suddenly close up, and my brain explode. Despite the heat of the day, I made another walk back down the hill, knowing full well I would have to come back up it.

The medic was nice, but very dismissive. He obviously didn't understand that I could die AT ANY SECOND. But that was probably a good thing. He just told me to keep an eye on it and see my own doctor if I started "seeing the signs of an allergic reaction."

And then he asked me if I knew what those were. Of course I knew.

... didn't I?

"You want to watch for shortness of breath, swelling of the face, redness of the skin..."

Not shown: The clothes I was actually wearing at the time, I swear

And with that he sent me back up to the office. This trip, I wore my Don't-Mess-With-Me-Bug face, and it seemed to work. I made it back, trying to push the signs the medic had told me out of my head, and trying to ignore the occasional sharp pain from my forehead and the slight itchiness that had started there. I finished my stuff and clocked out, and got in my car, ready to make the 40-minute drive home.

Forty minutes is kind of a long drive. And when you're on the road for that long, you have a tendency to think. Within five minutes, it was like a record of the medic's voice playing over and over in my head. And let me tell you, folks, the symptoms of a mild panic attack? Kinda sorta similar to the signs of an allergic reaction.

By the time I got home, I was a quivering, nervous ball. WH managed to calm me down, as did the fact that I managed to reach my house without suddenly blowing up like Violet Beauregarde and dying on the freeway. I was safe. I had made it through another crisis alive, with only a slightly itchy bump to show for it.

That should have been good enough for a while, right? I mean, one unprovoked insect attack is enough excitement and paperwork for a girl for a week, right?

Well, the universe had other plans.

Today, I scraped my leg pretty hard on a metal bar at the bottom of a gate. You know, the unyielding kind that go into a hole in the concrete to hold the gate in place? Yeah, one of those. Right now, I'm sitting on the couch with an ace bandage wrapped around an ice pack, wrapped around my leg, trying NOT to go on one of those medical websites and see if there are any horrible ways you can die from bruising.

Any true hypochondriac knows exactly what this is like

It's not easy, let me tell you. I haven't had a bruise so bad it made my whole lower leg stiff in, I think, ever. I'm pretty convinced, though, that if I go onto that website and let myself do this, this will be the result:

Zombieism is a serious disease, folks. If I've got it, I don't want to know.