Ladies and gentleman, specifically to gross you out, I have Shingles.
It's a real classy disease, let me tell you.
First, you notice a pain wherever Shingles is preparing to erupt and ruin your life. It can feel like a soreness. Some people believe they've pulled a muscle. This, my friends, is not the case. Your nerve is being attacked by the little Shingles gnomes (of course they're gnomes) and undergoing severe gnome devastation like that can make anything feel sore.
Then, the little Shingles gnomes start popping up in the spot where they conquered your nerve. There's like one or two, in my case three, and you feel them one day as you're rubbing your sore ass shoulder. If you're anything like me you think "Whoa... are these cancer bumps?" because you are always, and I mean ALWAYS, scared you will get cancer on your back. And for some reason it always, and I mean ALWAYS, starts with tiny bumps. You run to your mom "MOM I HAVE CANCER BUMPS!!!" and she rolls her eyes at you and looks at them. "No, you have pimples... now SHUT THE HELL UP!" *Author's note: My mom probably wouldn't say that to me, well, maybe she would, but not so dramatically. The dramatic use of cursing and CAPS LOCK is specifically for humor purposes only. Now, let's continue*
BUT YOU'RE BOTH WRONG BECAUSE IT'S THE SHINGLES GNOMES. AND THEY ARE LAUGHING MANICALLY AT YOUR CANCER HYPOTHESIS BECAUSE YOU ARE SO FUCKING WRONG!
The little Shingles gnomes start reproducing and gyrating to some awful techno music that Chad Michael Murray probably enjoys. This creates more bumps and makes them all itchy. All you want to do is itch those stupid bumps because you KNOW that if you just itched it once it would all go away, so you do. But the itch does not go away because the little Shingles gnomes are all on ecstasy and that makes their itchy dance rave go for 24 hours a day.
So, in my situation because I am poor, I do not go to a doctor's office. I probably could count the number of times I've been to the doctor with my limbs. I fight the little Shingles gnomes dance rave with itch cream. Take that, little suckers. Screw your dancing. I will win. I won't itch!
This itch-cream-repeat routine happens for a while. You get another patch on your arm that isn't as crazy looking as the back, but makes you seriously consider the fact that you have a flesh eating virus and that you are dying. You think about life and what it's meant to you and you pray a lot that you don't have the flesh eating virus. You finish the letters that you'd half written in your "In The Event of My Death" folder you have on your laptop. You figure out who gets what of your possessions (I'm taking Little Foot to my fiery kiln of a burial, mofos. Don't even think about it.).
Your aunt tells you you have a fungus. What the hell? There's mushrooms or moss or whatever fungus is growing on your back!?! You don't know what "fungus" means exactly, but it doesn't sound pretty. And, in fact, it does not look pretty either. As you desperately search Google images for "skin eating fungus" (Don't do it.), you realize that your life will probably end and you will look disgusting. You will look like your skin is entirely gone and your muscles are just out there, exposed to the world, naked of their protective epidermis layers.
And then you get a new patch on your wrist. You either have some insanely awkward cancer, or in fact you do have the flesh eating virus. Those are the only options.
You go to the doctor. She exclaims "YOU HAVE HERPES."
You reply, "Listen, lady. I'm sure you are very adequate at your job. I'm sure you excel at it. But the thing is, there's no way I can have herpes because... well... I... don't... do it. Yes, I don't have sex? Don't look at me like that. I'm not lying. Yeah, so I can't have herpes."
But you think there's a possibility because that one time you were in the Sonic bathroom with your mom and she realized you don't really like toilet seat covers and she told you if you kept doing that you'd probably gets AIDS and STD's. You remember how that one time she asked you what would happen when your survivor phone finally broke and you told her stfu because your survivor phone would never break and then IT DID FOR NO REASON! You realize she's right about things all the time and maybe she's right about you having herpes because you don't use toilet seat covers. You think about how no one will want to marry you because you will probably get those creepy wart things down below and who wants someone with an STD and they've never even have the S?!?
All this passes through your mind quicker than it took to read that paragraph and then you realize the doctor is looking at you like you're an idiot.
"You have Shingles, which is a reoccurrence of chicken pox. When you have gone through chicken pox, the virus lays dormant in your nerves and sometimes it can resurface as Shingles, which is treated the same way as Herpes."
And then you figure out the little bumps are actually the dancing, gyrating, techno-loving little Shingles gnomes. You get a prescription and you take the first pill, thinking SCREW YOU, LITTLE SHINGLES GNOMES! I AM CALLING THE ACYCLOVIR POPO ON YOUR DUMB BACK/ARM/WRIST BLOCK PARTY!
And then you win. The tides turn and once you've got the acyclovir popo on your side, there's nothing the little Shingles gnomes can do. You're destroying them five times a day with food and plenty of water.
Thank you to all who were with me technologically when I went to the doctor's and for all the encouragement and prayers you sent my way. This post is dedicated to you.