Excuse me, sir? Sir. Would you and your date mind keeping it down a tad? No, you’re not being too loud. It’s just that I’m allergic to sarcasm.
There is no need for laughter. I’m not trying to be some kind of touchy-feely, New Age whiner. I’m not making some pedantic statement on human nature, a feeble attempt to comment on how I abhor our cruel, post-modern society and refuse to engage in it. No, your sarcasm is literally making me break out in hives. If you keep it up, my breathing will become labored, and then I will go into anaphylactic shock and perhaps expire.
Sir, I will have you know this is a legitimate allergy. I have had it confirmed as real by both an herbalist and by two out of three homeopaths. This is my life, a constant struggle. I’ve lived with this my entire life, and let me tell you. It has not been a picnic.
There, right there. “So you’re allergic to sarcasm?” Do you see the red bumps that are breaking out on my forearms? That was not helpful. The very tone of your voice, that inflection on the word ‘sarcasm’ was enough to start the process. And now, the hives.
It first happened when I was in middle school. We were coming back in from gym class, and I slipped on the wet tiles in the locker room. I didn’t fall, but I remember Paul McHenry shouted out “Oh, smooth move Ex-Lax!” and I fell to the ground with my throat closed up and my eyes swelling shut.
And then again in high school, school picture day. “Hey, I really like the new look. That’s super cool. Maybe next time you should try and do them so that they touch in the back.” How was I to know that the lines shaved in my temples were off-center? And how about a little bit of empathy, huh? It’s not my fault that my mom couldn’t find the ruler. I nearly died that day. Thankfully, I had started carrying an epipen when I was fourteen.
At least on most occasions, I know when it’s sarcasm so I can put a pencil between my teeth to help with the seizures. But college was tougher. A much smarter class of people, half of the time they were being sarcastic and I didn’t even realize it. I had a professor who took me to task on a term paper I had written. “Why yes, I suppose that Plato’s Cave could have illustrated man’s sense of imagination while addressing the very nature of education as well.” Writ in a pen as red as my inflamed cheeks and sinuses.
I didn’t know he was being sarcastic until I was editing my essay in the library later that evening. I ended up projective vomiting for two days and ended up in hospital.
We settled out of court with the university.
Sir, I’m trying to explain it to you. I will stay in my apartment for days at a time, trying to avoid people so I won’t even have to risk encountering any sarcastic comments. I try and restrict most all of my social transactions through the internet, because they say that sarcasm doesn’t translate through the internet as well.
But you know what? It surely does. They lie. A single comments page on Youtube might kill me one of these days. I’d trade this for the worst peanut allergy any day of the week. They have to label foods to warn you about peanut allergies. I wish they could label websites.
Worst of all are the paramedics. I guess they call it gallows humor, but I call it singularly unhelpful. Their attitudes might help them deal with the pressures of their job, but you would think that if they came to my home on a monthly or weekly basis that they would understand not to say things like “Oh, what happened? Were the Geek Squad mean to you again?” Or “Good to see you again!” Yes, I know that tone. Perhaps if they could develop the slightest modicum of empathy for my ailment they wouldn’t have to drag that crash cart to my third floor walk up.
Thank you, it really does feel like I’m the only person in the world with problems. It really is hard to live like this. Thank you for understanding.
...wait, what?
There is no need for laughter. I’m not trying to be some kind of touchy-feely, New Age whiner. I’m not making some pedantic statement on human nature, a feeble attempt to comment on how I abhor our cruel, post-modern society and refuse to engage in it. No, your sarcasm is literally making me break out in hives. If you keep it up, my breathing will become labored, and then I will go into anaphylactic shock and perhaps expire.
Sir, I will have you know this is a legitimate allergy. I have had it confirmed as real by both an herbalist and by two out of three homeopaths. This is my life, a constant struggle. I’ve lived with this my entire life, and let me tell you. It has not been a picnic.
There, right there. “So you’re allergic to sarcasm?” Do you see the red bumps that are breaking out on my forearms? That was not helpful. The very tone of your voice, that inflection on the word ‘sarcasm’ was enough to start the process. And now, the hives.
It first happened when I was in middle school. We were coming back in from gym class, and I slipped on the wet tiles in the locker room. I didn’t fall, but I remember Paul McHenry shouted out “Oh, smooth move Ex-Lax!” and I fell to the ground with my throat closed up and my eyes swelling shut.
And then again in high school, school picture day. “Hey, I really like the new look. That’s super cool. Maybe next time you should try and do them so that they touch in the back.” How was I to know that the lines shaved in my temples were off-center? And how about a little bit of empathy, huh? It’s not my fault that my mom couldn’t find the ruler. I nearly died that day. Thankfully, I had started carrying an epipen when I was fourteen.
At least on most occasions, I know when it’s sarcasm so I can put a pencil between my teeth to help with the seizures. But college was tougher. A much smarter class of people, half of the time they were being sarcastic and I didn’t even realize it. I had a professor who took me to task on a term paper I had written. “Why yes, I suppose that Plato’s Cave could have illustrated man’s sense of imagination while addressing the very nature of education as well.” Writ in a pen as red as my inflamed cheeks and sinuses.
I didn’t know he was being sarcastic until I was editing my essay in the library later that evening. I ended up projective vomiting for two days and ended up in hospital.
We settled out of court with the university.
Sir, I’m trying to explain it to you. I will stay in my apartment for days at a time, trying to avoid people so I won’t even have to risk encountering any sarcastic comments. I try and restrict most all of my social transactions through the internet, because they say that sarcasm doesn’t translate through the internet as well.
But you know what? It surely does. They lie. A single comments page on Youtube might kill me one of these days. I’d trade this for the worst peanut allergy any day of the week. They have to label foods to warn you about peanut allergies. I wish they could label websites.
Worst of all are the paramedics. I guess they call it gallows humor, but I call it singularly unhelpful. Their attitudes might help them deal with the pressures of their job, but you would think that if they came to my home on a monthly or weekly basis that they would understand not to say things like “Oh, what happened? Were the Geek Squad mean to you again?” Or “Good to see you again!” Yes, I know that tone. Perhaps if they could develop the slightest modicum of empathy for my ailment they wouldn’t have to drag that crash cart to my third floor walk up.
Thank you, it really does feel like I’m the only person in the world with problems. It really is hard to live like this. Thank you for understanding.
...wait, what?
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