When I was in grade school I gave myself fake allergies. I did this so I wouldn’t have to take a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch everyday; this worked out most of the time except when we ran out of lunch meat and I ended up having to eat a Velveeta yellow-mustard white-bread sandwich; this hunk of lunch could really have only been worse for me if I slathered it with mayo—luckily I was “allergic” to mayo too so I saved a few sacred calories. I don’t know why anyone believed me, especially since I was not allergic to peanut butter if it was covered in chocolate. I especially don’t know why any one believed me when the list began to elongate. It started with food products, peanut butter, mayo, gravy, tomatoes, but then it moved into other territories: dish soap, mowing the lawn, and once in the 6th grade I even faked being allergic to shaving cream so I didn’t have to play some stupid obstacle rely game where I was forcedly partnered up with some creepy fat boy who had a crush on me, probably the best use of a fake allergy ever.
But then, I had to actually go to a doctor and get an allergy test.
And the truth befell. I wasn’t allergic to peanuts or mayonnaise or tomatoes or dish soap.
I was allergic to cats. And I had a cat. Oh, the karmic world came down on me hard that day.
Poor ole’ Taz was given to a family friend. Poor ole Taz was mauled by the family friend’s dog within hours.
Thus, in the end, I learned not to push my luck; it was better to just state the truth, I didn’t like PB or Mayo or doing the dishes, but that didn’t mean I should lie to people about it just to get what I wanted (or didn’t want). It’s just too bad Taz had to die over the whole event. Oh, what the animal sacrifices.