Allergy Girl IISandra Beasley
Each food was a shape eyed by the antibody, looking for an immunoglobulin hole to match. A good fit would make for a bad reaction. My bloodstream was a Fisher-Price workbench, full of exact and waiting geometries. I was a lot of good fits waiting to happen. Peanuts tumbled by, harmless. But a cashew— that fit into the open crescent, there, its immune goblin hole. My antibodies had their plastic red histamine hammers ready—smack smack smack—skin of my forearms, chin, chest rippling out with each little blow— They were just doing their job.
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