Vile Weed!

I've always said that everyone needs an enemy. It appears I have found my white whale, my Pazuzu. I, Ahab. I, Merrin. The name of this archenemy, scientifically speaking, is Rhus radicans, otherwise known as poison ivy.

Three times in the past two years have I suffered the curse of this demon plant, and each encounter is more exhausting, more maddening, each affliction exacting a greater toll on my patience in an ongoing quest for serenity and blister-free living. I consider the battle between us somewhat ironic because the three-leafed bastard belongs to a phylum I have long considered a friend. Then again, I routinely forsake animal flesh to feast exclusively on its leafy brethren, so I suppose a reckoning of some sort is overdue.

But hear this, vile weed: I shall not submit. I shall not relent. I shall not go quietly. I may scratch, and the amber ooze dormant in the crusty pustules plaguing both legs may flow into my socks, thereby worsening my dilemma, but I will persevere. I will win this fight.

I know where you live. And I own a lawn mower.