Remember when I said I was an eternal optimist? Well that’s usually true…but not when it has to do with sickness. Which means I’m not really an eternal optimist. Actually, after reading this you will realize that I am quite the opposite of an eternal optimist.
But that’s ok.
Let me explain something to you here. On a futile whim many years ago I found myself at the hands of a maniacal psychic. She looked like this…
Yes. Just like this.
Drunk with giddiness and curiosity, I asked her how I was going to die. She rubbed her grungy, cocaine-laden palms over her crystal ball (which was an upside down fishbowl with a wad of Christmas lights in the middle and a scarf around the bottom) and told me that I would contract a horribly painful disease and die a slow, agonizing death. I concurred this death would be either A. necrotizing fasciitis or B. Ebola, as they are both horribly painful diseases. I realized later she had not said anything about bacteria viciously eating my flesh away, so I just had to assume she was talking about Ebola…or one of the bazillion other lethal diseases out there.
Ever since then I have been a complete hypochondriac, meaning I freak out every time I don’t feel good. To you, a stomachache means you ate one too many chimichangas. To me, it’s the beginning of the end.
I don’t like to take over-the-counter medicine for fear that my immune system will not be able to destroy basic antigens without outside force, so I like to find other ways to cure my sicknesses. For example, the other day when I had a sore throat…
Mom: “What are you doing?”
Me: “Making a Wicken concoction of sage, lemongrass, crow feet, and cayenne pepper in hopes that it will cure the debilitating disease I probably have.”
Mom: “Oh.”
Also, every time something even remotely harmful happens, I prepare myself for death.
Mom: “How was work?”
Me: “I scratched myself on an old, rusty nail on by accident. I probably contracted tetanus. I’m pretty sure I’m not going to wake up tomorrow morning.”
Mom: “Oh.”
I usually have to make something up in order for my mother to pay for a doctor’s appointment. Like when I have a stuffy nose (the first symptom of swine/bird flu) I pretend like am in excruciating pain so she will give me her insurance card. From there, I rush to doctor's and demand blood tests, CAT scans, MRI’s, and multiple examinations. They usually tell me to go home and take a Benadryl.
Me: “What is it Doc!? Swine flu??“
Doctor: *puts hand to forehead* "claire, you do not have swine flu. You have allergies. Please go home."
Me: “Thanks for all of your help, bitch.” *stomps away in frustration*
Thankfully, I am yet to die of Ebola.
Also, I’m beginning to think that I dreamt the part about the psychic.
But that’s ok.
*On a side note, I have a present for you:
YES.
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