Blood Sucking Bastards

This is the harrowing tale of how I found myself in a drug induced coma for three days:

Last Saturday was the day of the incident, and the next Friday was the first day that I was actually alert and able to form coherent sentences without the danger of drool or nonsensical words. Or, god forbid, sloppy grammar. I actually ended some of my sentences in prepositions this week. I just did not care because I was so out of it. And it is all because of those blood sucking bastards.

It all started on Saturday night. Following the summer weekend tradition, I was at a friend's house for a party. There was the typical drinking and card games as well as a viewing of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs that just happened to be on Cartoon Network. Let me tell you, we weren't drinking when we were watching that movie, but we were all confused and a little bit scared by it.

The night continued with Teen Wolf (a much better movie when you add alcohol), and eventually we found ourselves out on the deck. Now, I have lived in Minnesota for my whole life. I should have known better. We all should have known better. But little did I know the horror that was about to befall me.

When I woke up the next morning, everything seemed normal. I didn't have a typical hangover, but my usual "Oh God what did I do to myself last night?" feeling. Resigning myself to an unproductive day, I grabbed the fuzziest, warmest blanket that I own and unceremoniously plopped myself onto the couch for an all day Doctor Who marathon.

As The Doctor made eye contact with Donna through a window behind Matron Foster's back, I began to notice an itch on the top of my foot. I scratched it absentmindedly and went back to watching. About the time Donna started whining about not being able to save the people of Pompeii, my ankle began to torture me with insatiable itching. By the time The Doctor Donna saved the Ood, my feet were swollen and misshapen by twenty-six bites that all seemed to be located in the worst places. My toes, my insteps, my ankles, and my heels were torture.

I desperately tore apart the medicine cabinet searching for anti-itch cream. I slathered my feet with Benadryl cream and waited for it to take effect. It didn't. My mom had prescription strength anti-itch cream, and I covered my feet in that. It didn't work. I was in agony, but I refused to take Benadryl pills to knock myself out from the torture because I do not handle it well. Those pills knock me on my ass.

Finally, after getting only two hours of sleep because of the incessant itching, I resigned myself to the inevitable. I staggered out of bed and made my pathetic sleep deprived way to the medicine cabinet. By this time I was practically comatose already from exhaustion and painful itching, so I figured I may as well make it a drug induced coma.

And that is how I ended up sleeping for nearly three days. I took the Benadryl ungodly early Monday morning and continued taking it every four hours that I was conscious. The itching and the swelling were gone by Tuesday afternoon, but I continued to sleep until well into Wednesday. By the time two o'clock rolled around, I had had enough. I forced myself out of bed and made the world aware that I had not died.

Those damn blood sucking bastards.