By a congested, Claritin-dependent shell of a Barnard student.

Look, I know spring is the main character for most people. Birds chirping, tulips blooming, the sweet reawakening of nature, yada yada, but for those of us cursed with seasonal allergies, spring is not a season—it’s a natural disaster dressed in pastels. An attack on my sinuses.

While you’re out in Riverside Park taking blurry photos of cherry blossoms and pretending to read 1984 for the vibes, I’m raw-dogging Benadryl like it’s a pregame. My eyes? Bloodshot. My nose? A faucet. My will to live? Lost somewhere in a cloud of tree sperm.

Because that’s what pollen is, by the way. Tree. Sperm. Floating through the air like it owns the place, violating my sinuses without consent. Evolution really said, “Let’s make flowers pretty AND violent.”

Spring is also when people suddenly remember they have legs and start frolicking around campus like we live in a rom-com. (I am honestly so jealous by this) Meanwhile, I’m out here looking like I just finished crying in Milstein—except I haven’t. I’m just allergic to the sky.

So no, I will not be participating in your picnic. I will not be playing spikeball on Butler lawns. I will be inside, windows shut, sipping my Benadryl cocktail and fighting to breath through my nose instead of my mouth.

Spring may be about rebirth and renewal, but for me? It’s revenge.

Image via Bwog Archives