The embarrassment of having to explain the severity of my allergy and blushing while people, oblivious to how impossibly prude I really am, make less than awesome references to dirty, dirty sex. It's hard to explain why, at 23, when I say "No, I was blowing up balloons for my roommates' (that apostrophe is correct.) boyfriend's roommate's birthday," I blush. I'm not lying, though it wasn't my first reaction to latex, it was the the reaction that cemented in my mind the source of my allergy.
(My first, if you much know, was in my AP Bio class during our two plus week fetal pig dissection. Those things are swimming in formalin and filled with latex...tasty. )
I, though it is easier said than done, must rise above my embarrassment and be the voice of the anti-latex movement. So here goes.
Restaurants, stores, birthday parties, pens we need to talk. Balloons kill. And I'm not just talking about grown-up baby cancer patients, dolphins and penguins. I'm talking about eating, shopping, aging, writing human beings without an over exposure problem. Please cruel world, help us. Stop poisoning the air with your gaiety.
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