I thought that I had escaped the dreaded pollen plague. Honestly. Spring had sprung and gone. And my nose was fine; breathing easy and even enjoying some classy, faux nose-candy. I got through March, April and May without so much as a sniffle. I had begun to think that maybe Mother Nature had finally blessed me with the ever-coveted immunity. I was about three minutes from lifting my hands to the heavens and saluting her grace and mercy. But, alas, she did it again. She did just as she had done this winter and approximately 5 days a week every month: she played me.

I don't know Mother Nature personally, like we don't hang, but I have a feeling that if I met her I would have to obnoxiously sing some Drake song while looking directly into her eyes and crying because she constantly plays with my emotions. But I digress.

A couple days ago I awoke with a familiar itch in the back of my throat and my eyes were watery and red. My tear ducts seemed to be feeling some type of way and my nose was so stuffy I felt like someone had filled my forehead with water. As I slumped to the bathroom to assess the damage in the mirror, my puffy eyes and agape mouth told me the dreaded news I was trying to avoid for months: my allergies had finally caught up to me.

I'm sure anyone who experiences allergies has already sent me their silent condolences and for those who don't understand my pain, let me break it down to you.

Having seasonal allergies is like having a frenemy that comes to stay in your head. You all get along because you have to for some odd, sad, cringeworthy reason, you often have to heavily medicate yourself to deal with them and once they're gone you feel a sense of freedom and every meal tastes better. (I'm just going to pat myself on the back for coming up with that amazing analogy on the spot, go me).

Let's go even further:

My allergies start right at the buttcrack of dawn. I wake up stiff, sniffly and puffy (Beyonce didn't write that song during allergy season, I guarantee you.) I then hobble myself to the bathroom to blow my nose, because who doesn't love a nice little self-disgust session in the morning? After that, I just kind of stare at myself in the mirror and ask a lot of questions like, "why me?" "how long will this suffering go on?" and "what did I do to deserve this?" Once I've come to cope with the fact that this may be my life forever, I sit at the edge of my bed and consider overdosing on Benadryl®. Once I talk myself into being a more productive human in society, I try to dress myself, but because the ringing in my ears, full minutes of sneezing spells and the fire in my tear ducts render me at the production level of a potato, I make the adult decision that pajamas are acceptable public clothes; pshh. From there, I spend the rest of the day avoiding light and sound and skeptical stares from my grandma who thinks I may be hungover. It's all so glamorous.

Because I'm still suffering from this practical joke from Mother Nature, I'm going to end this article here and cry into a slice of poundcake that I can't even taste; at least she's helping me watch my carb intake.