I have allergies. With the exception of penicillin, they’re not life threatening. But they’re bad. They’re real bad. I spend my days sneezing and trying not let my nose run out of my head. I live with a cat who naps on my pillow and I am allergic to cats. The skin around my nostrils is in a constant state of upheaval. My allergies are conniving. They promised to get you backstage at Ultra and disappeared with your 200 bucks. They make their signature vegetarian stew with meat broth. They killed Macauly Culkin. But I’ve decided to live with them. Yeah, I could cave. I could join the antihistamine bandwagon and take one more pill…every…single…day. But I’ve decided, what the hell. I am going to sniffle my way through life. I am going to greet the future with a smile on my face and a slightly used tissue in my pocket. I am going to be the one who says, “Hey. Hey allergies. I have you. I have you, and I’m OK with that.” And then I’m going to present a moist tissue and ask for the nearest trashcan.