You know one of the bummer byproducts of being so busy? No time to be a hypochondriac. There’s all these diseases out there I’m not noticing or rabidly researching and it’s making me a little sad inside. I mean, I used to be a top-producing hypo. Baseless ER visits, vague “chest pains,” ALS scares. And now, I can’t even bring myself to open WebMD. There’s just not enough minutes in the day to imagine death by ingrown hair infection.
The thing is, I’ve got real stuff happening, like unexplained muscle twitching, one nostril completely closed to all oxygen inflow, and underground zits. How I’m not able to envision MS, cancerous nasal polyps, and flesh-eating bacteria instead is of some concern. Because everyone knows when you stop imagining the worst case scenario it happens.
I’m also pretty sure my apathy toward my many probably ailments is that my close friend is a hypochondriac. I’m so busy worrying about her illusory fatal events, there’s no obsession left for me. I mean I love her, but she goes to the doctor like three times a week. Eye twitching? Doctor. Sore foot? Doctor. Weird chin hair? Death by ingrown hair infection. She gives me a run for my money, she really does. I think she likes hanging out with me because I’ve had everything she
“has” and I provide some psycho-by-association comfort.
All this is to say that I can’t form thoughts to create a legible post.
Which is probably some kind of brain infarction I need to self-diagnose.
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