A report from the Altered States of America

For some reason I've been battling random unexplained cases of the hives the last couple of nights, which isn't unusual for me but ran in this case toward the egregious, bordering on icky. So last night, sporting a hive job somewhere between Early David Cronenberg Flick and Leper Colony Chic, figmentj suggested that I take some Benadryl to get it under control. "It's not going to knock you into a coma for four days, is it?" she asked, and when I balked a bit, she suggested that I only take one instead of two. I agreed, with the patented famous last words, "It won't be that bad."

Friends, I'd like to tell you how my work day fared in the wake of this, but I'm afraid I only experienced it subliminally. I'm pretty sure I was at work, because I don't tend to dream about data entry, even whilst on Benadryl; beyond that, though, my morning was a blank. It didn't help that I didn't have my usual Cistern o' Pepsi with me today. (I didn't think my habit was that noticeable until Coworker Jen said, "Omigod, Adam, where's your Pepsi?" I can quit whenever I wanna.) Mental note taken: no Benadryl the night before...well, pretty much anything, although I might make exceptions for long train rides and/or jury duty.

Private note to figmentj and belgatherial, both of whom I spoke to after the meds kicked in late last night: one, I hope for your sakes that no one recorded me, and two, contrary to your collective assessments at the time, I do, in fact, distinctly recall being called a goober.