The Trouble With Blueberries
By Natasha Raulerson
For the record, I’m allergic to blueberries. Deathly allergic. Allergic enough that there’s an epi-pen in five different places in the apartment. My apartment – not the apartment of the one night stand I picked up at the bar. We used protection. I didn’t know they had flavored condoms. We were so caught up in the heat of the moment, tossing turning, tangling, licking, and well – you get the idea – that I didn’t pay attention when he grabbed the rubber package. He put it on, he tossed the wrapper. That was enough.
Not thirty seconds in, something was wrong. Burning, aching, my tongue swelling.
For the record, going to anaphylactic shock in the presence of a stranger is never fun. Especially when they’re lucky enough to have been healthy, have healthy people in their life, and have never before dealt with someone transforming into an elephant woman while naked in their bed. Screaming ensued. I could have sworn it was a ten year old girl that magically appeared in the room, and then I realized it was him. His high pitched, wailing screams pierced like tiny gnomes stabbing my ear drums with finely forged daggers.
It’s hard to stay calm when your heart is racing so hard against your breastplate it might crack the sternum. Lack of air makes the edges of the world go dark, and what you can see is fuzzy like an old 80’s cartoon – okay maybe a little better than that. The senses dull. The gnomes retreated, returning from whence they came before the darkness came down upon them.
For the record – instead of staring and freaking the fuck out, call 911. If you don’t know what else to do just get the phone, say the woman you brought home is transforming into a grotesque monster. Tell them the skin around her eyes has swollen up like water balloons filled with so much liquid they’re on the edge of bursting. Tell them her fingers are thick and fat and resemble sausages. The Italian kind, not kielbasa. It wasn’t appetizing despite the comparison.
His shock wore off about the time I was doing less breathing and more wheezing. Air becomes thicker than molasses in winter when trying to breathe through an esophagus the size of a pinhole. My lungs burned, angry that they weren’t getting what they needed. He called 911.
For the record – dying isn’t glamorous. Its darkness and nothingness, then confusion. No one is waiting with a set of directions telling you where to go and what to do. No one’s even there to tell you that the odds of dying from a blueberry flavored condom are ridiculously low. In fact, no one’s ever died from a blueberry flavored condom. You’re the first. I’m the first.
For the record – I’m dead. They just took my body out in a black bag. The moron is sitting on the bed in his boxers, playing the sympathy card with the hot paramedic. A police officer bags and tags the blueberry condom wrapper.
This was going to make the papers just because of how odd it was. The headline – “Death by Blueberry Condom.”
For the record – I hate blueberries.