I was not always such a tragic character. Time was, I could outswim fishes and bathe for days on end (making raisins blush). It goes like this:
Back in highschool, my senior year I believe, I contracted strep throat from some dirty children. Lacking proper health insurance, I made a stop at the community clinic. I filled out the paperwork, sat in the office, was met by a grumpy old doctor, given some magic red pills, and set off on my way.
Trouble was, the magic red pills were amoxicilin, which is only trouble because I’m allergic to its close cousin, penicillin.
But doctor knows best, right? I took them as directed, and started to feel better. Sure, there was the strange little business with the coincidental appearance of tiny red dots all over my body, but other than that all was looking up.
A week passed, then two, then three. The dots stayed and so did my ailment. I went back to the clinic and saw a different doctor. This one yelled at me for not reporting the appearance of spots and also pointed out that amoxicillin and penicillin were virtually the same thing and that I could have died.
Anyway, long story short, the strep throat eventually went away with the help of new medication, and after a couple of months, the dots retired to obscurity beneath my dermis.
But as legend has it, they emerge from their slumber when I’m doused with water. Bastards.