Every Spring, for the past two years, I have been faced with a crippling bout of allergies. I never really had them before, so their onset is a tad confusing. I’ve lived in NYC for more than four years now, in the same neighborhood, so as much as this Red Sox fan would love to, I can’t blame the Big Apple.
I’d like to blame the trees, but Marky Mark made that seem too ridiculous. I’d also like to blame The Trees, but my days of listening to Rush were long gone well before the allergies set in.
So after a brief, slightly ill-considered, largely well-inebriated period of elimination, I’ve come to a startling conclusion: I’m allergic to my son.