If I could grow a rainbow mustache, I would do it. It would be beautiful, sparkling and shiny and super clean. Then, people would be fascinated with my colorful mustache and I would be less insecure about the impetigo sores on my face.
Call me crazy, nonsensical or ridiculously impractical (same thing) but I’ve got a problem. With the natural bacterial world. It’s with the seemingly annoying small things like impetigo, cracks in my fingers, and winter diarrhea bugs. Ughhh. Small things. That exist without sharing much great love. Perhaps, having part of my small intestine coming out of my body makes me feel like I should have some sort of super immunity Captain America type shield to the petty peck, peck, pecking away at my immuno-compromised body. It’s quite the opposite though.
Do you know who gets bright red, itchy, burnt pus filled sores on their bodies, faces and under their tiny noses? Children typically do. Sweet little babies who don’t understand. Oh, yes, and my grown ass adult face gets impetigo too.
Oh, how I understand the heinous contagious sores. I tend to them like a diligent gardener. Even though I’m unsure of how to diligently garden. I clean and clean and ointment the painful tender blisters that feel more like burns. OUCH! Mother@&$!€r! Who put their cigarette out under my nose? Who would do that? And in my sleep.
I’ll tell you who. An opportunistic staphylococcus bastard. If I could have negotiated with the bastard before he infected me, I would have said, “Hey, again. Listen, I already have Crohn’s disease and a big ass kidney stone camping out in my left kidney. Can you just leave me the hell alone? For today. Why don’t you go play with C-diff. Just don’t take advantage of my overly-snotted-on broken-down skin under my nose. Please. I beg you.”
Fine. Be that way. I hate you. Yep. I said it. And I do teach my kids not to say the word, “hate.” It’s a bad word and you’re a bad bacteria.
Who am I kidding? Then, I would probably get some aloe-infused Kleenex for Staph because I’ve taken the imaginary conversation too far.
But I’m pretty sure Staph doesn’t listen anyways. Bacteria can be so egotistical. Or is it narcissistic? Thinking they can go wherever they want. Infecting people, surfaces, whatever. It’s cool. They’ve got a confident “don’t fence me in” mentality. You’ve got to hand it to them. Just make sure you wash your hands after you do.
The redness under my nose makes you accidentally make that “ouch, what happened? Did a Kleenex try to kill you? That must hurt face.” You know the one. It’s fine to do it to babies but not so much grown-ups. I feel a bit better and I promise I won’t touch you. Unless I really don’t like you. You should be suspicious if I start doing awkward double face kisses like I’m from another country. Just kidding, I don’t think I’m contagious anymore.
Or am I? Insert evil laugh.
Whatever you do, just say no to “staphylo-(you’re-a)cocc-us.” And wash your hands for crying outloud. I see you, winter. Now, stop it.