Now I feel really bad...

...for raining acrimony on that poor, sweet girl who uses the internet to talk about her most private hopes and dreams. And who, regardless of the invective she has unleashed upon herself from sundry put upon readers, will probably parlay these notorious 15 minutes into many more profitable minutes for years to come. Unfortunately, this kind of inane confessional shtick works like a charm in America, especially when it comes from young, cute and tattooed writerettes.
If you feel a whiff of envy wafting across your computer screen, well yes, of course (except for the tattoos. Yuck.)
And so, in the spirit of empathy with navelgazing writers everywhere, I will share with you, my dear readers, mon semblables, mon freres, something of a deeply personal nature:
I have a very good reason to navel gaze today. I have a horrible rash across my entire torso and the back of my neck. It's very red and it itches like a mother.
I have 4 theories of why this is happening on a day when I should be out basking in the sun, enjoying the holiday in which we are supposed to remember the war dead, as our brain dead President urges us (but not think too much of those who are in the process of being freshly killed).
1. It's punishment for being so horrible to Emily Gould.
2. (and from here on the theories are much more likely):
Sun rash, or as they elegantly call it on WebMd, photosensitivity. My tofu-colored complexion had not been in the sun for eons and as I went for an enjoyable bicycle ride yesterday and read the NY Times in the park, I was attacked by the sun, despite the fact that I was wearing SPF 45.
3. Contact dermatitis, a byproduct of the above mentioned sunscreen and another cream I slathered on after I took a shower. This is unlikely, as my extremities, which were covered with SPF, are the only part of my body that does not look like a school of shrimp.
4. The crab and pork soup dumplings at Joe's Shanghai. I never eat those because my dining companions never want to order them, but yesterday the brave (and actual talented writer) Mercedes Cebrián, on her farewell lunch from a whirlwind tour of the States, was happy to oblige. I am not allergic to shellfish, that I know of, but I guess it's never too late to start. However, we are wary of blaming Joe's Shanghai for anything, as it is the temple where we suck at the teat of nirvana.
My guess is I was attacked by Helios, mercifully early into the season, yet as a warning to not even attempt to show myself in the bright light of Summer if not covered by something resembling a burka.
Just so you know, calamine lotion made it worse. If any of you have any conspiracy theories of your own 0r any idea of what I need to do to end this dermatological ordeal, your comments will be greatly appreciated.