If you suffer from cold sores, you’ll probably spend a lot of time trying your best to avoid them. You’re ashamed of yourself when you get one. You’re a dirty whorebag of a slut for ending up with herpes simplex, and you shouldn’t be seen in public. Basically, you should die.
Or at least, that’s how I feel about myself when I get one. So I’ll do anything to encourage the fuckers away as quickly as possible.
I find that lysine seems to help keep them controlled pretty well so that they’re not as intrusive (or rather obvious) as previously. Of course, as with all of this sort of thing, your mileage may vary. I take a single 1000mg tablet a day. They come from the health food shop.
This morning I discovered that I was running low on tablets, with less than a week’s supply remaining. So I figured that I’d pop into town and pick up another tub of them. Manfully striding into town I make straight for the appropriate shop and start scouring the shelves. Obviously, along with every other shop in the world, nothing stays in one place very long, and this time was no exception. The lysine was not where it was previously. However, being male, I’ll be damned if I’m going to ask a any shop assistant for, ahem, assistance.
Eventually I caved. I looked really really hard. But all I could find was cod liver oil, candied pineapple chunks and whey protein. I didn’t want any of those things. So, with shame in my heart, I asked the shop assistant.
“Hello!” I said.
“Ooh!” She said, “you scared me.”
I guess I had loomed from out of a different part of the brightly lit shop and into the ten feet of personal space around her, so that’s fair. I’d scared her with my obviousness. Damn me.
“I wonder,” I asked, “do you have any lysine? I’ve looked everywhere and I’ve been here for about a week.”
At this point the assistant, bless her, looked upon me with sad eyes. She reached and took my hand and patted it sympathetically.
“Awww… lysine,” she cooed, and continued in a whisper, “of course. We keep it behind the til.” And she wandered off, my hand still in hers, towards the cash desk. Part-way there she stopped and turned to me, and again, in a conspiratorial tone said, “We do three sizes. Five hundred milligrams in sixties, a thousand milligrams in sixties and a thousand in hundred-twenties.”
As far as I knew, lysine is some kind of soya protein and not really something worthy of hushed voices and gently-gently customer treatment.
“I may as well take the big tub,” I said.
“Awww, bless you, ok,” she smiled and shrugged and fished around behind the til until she found the packet. As she put the price through the til, I had a nasty feeling that I’d just about managed to escape without her pinching my cheek and ruffling my hair.
To quote from some of the higher quality Sunday papers, I paid, made my excuses and left.