Benadryl And Existentialism

I took a Benadryl
and forgot how linear time works.

My dreams had subtitles.
In French.

I sneezed so hard
I unlocked a childhood memory
and threw out my back.
At the same time.

My body is a wonderland—
specifically, the part of Wonderland
where everyone’s crying and allergic to every single flower that has ever existed.

I woke up in a different dimension
where I was still congested
but also responsible for a raccoon’s bar mitzvah.
It was beautiful.
I cried.
So did the raccoon.

Meanwhile, outside, a daffodil waved at me
with malicious intent.
I waved back.
With a middle finger and a Kleenex.

I googled
“Can antihistamines cause time travel?”
and the search results were just
pictures of Nietzsche holding a Neti pot.

I coughed so hard
I saw my ancestors.
They told me to try eucalyptus
and stop being dramatic.
They were wrong.

My sinuses are tighter than my finances.
My eyes itch like regret.
And my throat?
A metaphor for every apology I’ve never accepted.

Benadryl is my ride or die.
Mostly die.

I took one,
and next thing I knew
I was horizontal on the kitchen floor
contemplating the fragility of existence
and why my fridge light stays on
even when my dreams don’t.

Allergy season?
More like identity crisis with pollen.

Anyway—
I’m fine.
Just a little puffy
and one sneeze away from a full spiritual rebirth.

Namaste, bitch.