As I mentioned here once before a long time ago, I happen to be allergic to latex. This really isn’t that big a deal. I can’t wear dish gloves, so I keep disposable non-latex surgical gloves in the kitchen. I am sure somewhere in the world there is such a thing as non-latex bandages, although I’ve never come across such a thing, so I don’t typically use band-aids. And the other commonly used latex product... those little buddies necessary for an active social life for someone who happens to not be in a committed relationship, happen to have a medically endorsed non-latex equivalent. They’re difficult to come by, and INCREDIBLY EXPENSIVE, but I do own them. “Loser! Loser!” they mock me every time I open the medicine cabinet, as they decompose and inch closer every day to their expiration date.

Bastards.

You see, rule number one when you quit the hooch because you’ve put yourself in a really bad way because of the shit, well rule number two after not actually drinking, is no major life changes for a full year that may introduce new stress into your life, which obviously includes new relationships. You know, the whole “The only commitment you handle right now is this one commitment” blah blah blah. Not that I was ever what one would call a relationship hound; quite the opposite, but since I’m no longer stumbling out of bars... occasionally with a copilot of the female persuasion whose last name I have no intention of ever learning, and since new relationships are a big no no, I just have to resign myself to the fact that I’m not going to have any new play-friends for a while.

Believe it or not, I’m actually ninety percent okay with this. I have no desire for new stress in my life, and this aversion to stress outweighs the desire for the biological stuff for the time being. I never thought there would be a time in my life that I would be “okay” with the lack of it; but for right now I’m all right with “it” not being in the picture for me.

If that isn’t evidence that I’m committed, I don’t know what the fuck is.

Anyway, as I was saying, for quite a while I’ve been allergic to latex... or so I thought. The other day, I had a nasty cut on the top of my foot. The cut was rubbing against the top of my shoe and becoming inflamed. I had to pad it with something and I found an old box of band-aids. Even though I knew the band-aids would cause a rash, I used one anyway. One day went by... no rash. Two days... no rash. Three days... apparently, no more latex allergy. Just like a dozen other ailments that I’ve developed over the past five years, the latex allergy has miraculously disappeared over the course of the past four months. It seems as though these ailments and allergies were being aggravated by the the fact that I was poisoning myself with twelve to fifteen drinks nightly over a ten years period. Who knew?

My first reaction was, “Cool, I can use bandages again.” My second reaction was, “Hey! You don’t have to buy difficult to come by INCREDIBLY EXPENSIVE freak condoms anymore! Whoott!”

And that’s when the unused polyurethane condoms that have been rotting away in my medicine cabinet looked down and reminded me “Hey asshole, aren’t you forgetting something? You’ve been benched. You’re not getting any play anyway, so it doesn’t make a goddamned bit of difference, does it?”

Ah, the irony.

Bastards.