A Rash

Not since my infant years, have I had a rash of any concern. And that's not a figure of speech. I mean to say a rash of any concern. Those infant years brought about the dreaded diaper rash and even if I could remember, I'm positive the rash didn't reach farther than my little baby buttocks. I know this because I only wore diapers on my ass. But now, here I am at 25, a coating of red blotchy chain mail adorns my arms, torso, and legs.

Poison ivy or posion oak? Maybe, but I live in the city and, besides the occasional tree and patch of grass, the only vegitation I encounter regularly is a couple of houseplants-which I know are not poisonous. And the other telling factor in it not being an ivy or oak plant of the poisonous family is that it's not contagious. No one else I've come in contact with has picked it up, hard as I've tried to rub it in someone's face.
So, what gives? Or, what has given?

Here's the solution: Laundry Detergent. We switched detergents recently and I've begun to wear those clothes washed in this new concoction meant to help you wash whites and colors together more effectively. So, last night, I did a rewashing of as much of my wardrobe as quarters would allow. And today, the rash is fainter, but still annoying as all crap. And that's the thing. It's not really itchy. Maybe a little itchy, but not enough that it couldn't be ignored (like children in the 1900s). But, it's so damn annoying that I want to scratch the hell out of it to get even with it, you know? Does that even make sense? I know it doesn't. But how do you get back at a rash? Call it ugly? Go ahead. It won't listen.