Do I Dare

I’m considering participating in a clinical trial of an iodine-based drug that’s purported to relieve breast pain associated with menstruation. I’m actually considering taking a drug that’s not on the market and hasn’t been approved by the FDA.

When I heard the ad on the radio, I realized this study could be my in for the mammogram I’ve been waiting for my entire life. I nearly fell over myself getting to the phone.

Of course, I don’t qualify for a mammogram, but I do qualify to participate in the trial, and even though my original motive was the mammogram, I still find myself intrigued.

The trial takes place over a six-month period and involves keeping a daily diary and getting a monthly breast exam. A breast exam performed by a male doctor. That alone may be more stress than it’s worth.

But, what I’m more concerned about are the potential side effects; the real ones and the fake ones I'll make up in my mind. I don’t know if I can handle it mentally. I get freaked out about overdosing when I take three Advil.

The trial is a level III study, which means the drug has already been tested on animals and humans, and is ready to be released to the market.

Do I dare volunteer to be a test dummy?

Green Tea Cures AIDS?

Well maybe not, but according to this article it’s in the realm of possibility. Until that day, I guess we’ll have to settle for the other benefits that green tea offers. “It protects the heart, cuts the risk of fatal illness, blocks cancer, boosts liver function and provides hope to Alzheimer's victims.”

I know what I'm drinking at work tomorrow.

I'm Not Perfect

I unknowingly made a mistake at work yesterday. Not a huge mistake, but a mistake that was caught today by the Investigator for the Equal Rights Commission, who in turn called the Managing Shareholder of my office. Normally, something of this caliber would throw me into a fit of panic and a three-day tailspin into depression. Not this time.

Not only did I fess up to the mistake, which could’ve easily been swept under the rug, but I also took a good ribbing by my co-workers. I took it like a champ. I figure, if I didn't do my job so good, they wouldn’t be able to tease me about a minor mistake.

Ahhh, the sweet smell of progress.

Dear Mike

I charge twenty dollars for five page essays and forty dollars for seven and up.

But seriously, Mike left an important comment that I want to address with a full post because it poses some interesting questions that others might want to address as well.

Here’s the crux of his comment:

I am writing an essay on how Hypochondria has progressed due to the Advantages of the Internet, what is your take on this, understanding the notions of ease of accessibility, stigmatization of hypochondria and the Internet as a source of media.

Being twenty-two, my hypochondria and the internet have always gone hand-in-hand. I can’t personally touch on the topic of pre-internet hypochondria, but maybe Barbora or Trish can provide some insight into that area. For me, the internet has been a major problem because the symptoms of thousands of diseases are always at my fingertips. Every twinge sends me bolting to the computer. Sharp pain in the hip? Cancerous bone tumor. Numbness in the limbs? Multiple sclerosis. I often set out searching with one set of symptoms and leave with a completely new set; WebMD is a dangerous place.

As far as the stigma goes, it definitely exists. I’m still a closet hypochondriac after seven years of suffering. The blog is my outlet, but in my personal life, only my boyfriend knows my dirty little secret. So in this aspect, the internet has been a positive. Not only does it provide an outlet, but it connects me with other individuals who have and are experiencing the same feelings. Hopefully, it will be this connectedness that leads to hypochondriacs coming out of the closet, which in turn will lead to destigmatization.

As a source of media, the internet allows for extreme irresponsibility. The flow of information is enormous, but there are no safe guards to keep it out of the hands of amateurs. However, that is precisely what makes it a superior medium, it allows amateurs to seek and organize information without a gatekeeper. It’s a double edged sword!

Hope that helps. I accept PayPal, checks and money orders.

The World Revolves Around Me

Last Thursday, Sara’s cousin was pronounced brain dead.

Before her family could decide whether to pull the plug, she died.

She died on Saturday as a seemingly healthy forty-year-old woman. She died as a mother of three young children. She died from a bacterial infection.

She died!

I can’t get it out of my mind. My heart breaks when I think about the pain her two year old will face in the future. My heart breaks even more when I think about the pain her husband is facing now.

But, back to me.

I think I have the same bacterial infection. Last night, I was able to link the pain in my side, with what felt like a sore throat, and my contact with Sara, (who may be carrying the bacteria), to equal the infection. I was up until midnight in a fit of panic, debating whether to go to the ER.

I hate to be this way, so self-centered and weak. The woman dies and it’s about me dying.

A part of me knows there’s no way I’ve contracted the bacteria; another part of me knows that people would’ve said the same thing about Sara’s cousin.

Like I said, the world revolves around me.

Easier Said than Done

Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them—that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.
- Lao-Tzu

Even in My Dreams

I’m not one to believe that the answers to life, or future events, are hidden in a person’s dreams. Not too long ago, I was nearly heckled out of a community college psychology class when I divulged my belief that dreams were meaningless, (which was almost as bad as the time I told my history class that the President shouldn’t cry in public).

That being said, I realized this morning that my dreams seem to have a reoccurring theme: anxiety. In the last few weeks, my appearances in the dream world have consisted of the following:

• getting my lunch stolen by an ex-coworker;
• floating down a crocodile invested river with no raft or shoes;
• getting stuck in a cruise ship elevator on the seventh floor while wearing an oxygen mask; and
• driving aimlessly through a random town with shotty breaks

Obviously, all anxiety provoking events.

But strangely, the hypochondria rarely rears its head in that world. Aside from a recent dream—in which I found lumps in my brain and liver when my organs were laid out on a cafeteria table for inspection—the health component of my anxiety is virtually non-existent.

Not sure if this means I’m headed to the dreams-have-meaning camp, but this is definitely a pattern.

Why I’m Never Having Kids

Reason Number 1001:

They throw weeks of old dog shit over the neighbor’s fence and think no one will notice.

(one of about nine piles)

Needless to say, I’m the neighbor, and it was over my fence which the crap was thrown. How’s that for a Sunday morning surprise? Although, speaking of surprises, you should've seen their faces when Rey knocked on their door, and then later as they cleaned the crap out of our yard.

Forgetting to Breathe

At least every other week, I have an anxiety attack spurred by the sudden belief that I’m forgetting to breathe. During these attacks, you can find me on the floor, hysterically gasping for air, while loudly professing my newfound knowledge.

Rey always gets a big kick out these attacks, because according to him, “breathing is natural, and you can’t forget to do it!” He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, and this morning when I set off to prove him wrong by finding online cases of people who’ve died from forgetting to breathe, I stumbled across the International Breath Institute.

Apparently, we were both semi-right. Only babies die from forgetting to breathe, and only babies breathe properly naturally.

But, I didn’t realize how important breathing properly is, especially for the anxiety-ridden nation.

Breathing is the body’s main mechanism for disposing of waste, namely CO2. CO2 makes the nervous system excitable, and anxious people often live in a state with elevated CO2 levels. Breathing properly decreases those levels and in turn decreases the anxiety. But decreased anxiety isn’t the only benefit of breathing properly, it also increases energy, and improves complexion and blood circulation.

Pretty interesting stuff. The International Breath Institute also links to a thirty-year clinical study that claims the most significant factor in peak health and long life is how well you breathe.

The Kiss of Death

I’m sure she had no idea what it would do to me when she divulged that her forty-year-old cousin was on her death bed, but the ensuing days have been a living hell. I haven’t been able to breathe since Sara, an attorney I work with, called me into to her office to tell me the unlikely tragedy of her seemingly healthy cousin.

Sara’s cousin was a nurse, a mother of three, who had been feeling ill for the past month and a half. Respiratory infection she thought, but the doctors disagreed. They tested her for leukemia and other cancers, and while her platelet counts came back low, there was no diagnosis, or treatment. She begged for antibiotics, to fight what she thought was an infection in her lungs, the doctors refused.

“The doctors said the antibiotics could have a negative impact with her platelet count being so low. We all thought she was just being a hypochondriac.”

She actually used that word as she told me the story. Talk about the kiss of death.

Monday, Sara’s cousin walked into the emergency room. Her lung was collapsed. She was on the verge of cardiac arrest from lack of oxygen. Her blood stream was rampant with an infection that originated in her lungs, from an untreated case of pneumonia. Antibiotics were exactly what she had needed.

“They sedated her immediately so she wouldn’t have a heart attack. It’s unbelievable. She seemed so healthy. Now, she's on life support and you can’t even recognize her.”

In the rare event that Sara’s cousin does make it through, it will be as if she suffered a stroke. There'll be major brain damage and she’ll have to learn how to walk and talk again. But, the doctors don’t think it’s likely, it's almost certain that the infection will kill her.

At three o’clock yesterday, Sara rushed out the office because her cousin’s kidneys were failing. Today, I’m out of work with pneumonia.

The Hypochondriac's Dream

A cell phone that tracks nearby emergency rooms via GPS? Did I die and go to heaven?

And not only does Mayo Clinic in Touch inform you of the nearest emergency room, hold your breath, it also has a symptom checker, and delivers health alerts and first aid tips!

Excuse me while I go sign up.

Pain for Sale

I have an assortment of pains to offer today.

I have face pain. Face pain under the left eye that cripples me when I yawn, tilt my head, sneeze or breathe. I’m thinking Trigeminal Neuralgia.

This face pain is accompanied by heart pain and knee pain. Both characterized by a deep aching; the knee constantly, the heart in thirty-minute intervals.

But it doesn’t stop there, I’m also being tormented by kidney pain, mole pain, breast pain, and tooth pain. Not to mention, sharp pains in the head and under the tongue.

But, it’s not all bad news, I actually think I’m making progress.

When I get a piercing pain through the middle of my heart, I don’t scream “heart attack,” I lean more towards “early sign of heart disease,” or “cheese clogged artery.” When I get an intense aching in my kidney, I don’t think “spontaneous kidney failure,” or “organ combustion,” I just think I’m headed down that road. Proudly, I’m finding myself opt for long term diseases more often than abrupt death. That’s what I call progress.

And this, my friends, is exactly what crazy looks like.

Easier Said than Done

If you are pained by external things, it is not they that disturb you, but your own judgment of them. And it is in your power to wipe out that judgment now.
- Marcus Aurelius

A Ribbon Cutting Event

I am proud to announce that I am no longer a blogger. I am an official dot comer. That’s right, you can now find me at:

• theperfecthypochondriac.com

Watch out world, I'm movin' up! Okay, I'm still hosted by blogger.

Thank you, Rey!

The Many Faces of Leila V.

Not to say that I have multiple personalities, but one could persuasively argue that I do. I’m definitely no Sybil—which is a must see movie, if you haven’t already—but I’ve got a face for every occasion, a mask for every circumstance.

My lovely and unending faces resemble something close to the following:

• Work Leila: At work, I do my best to project a calm and assertive energy, something I’ve learned through relentless study of the Dog Whisperer’s teachings. I’m very focused and down to business. I want my work product to be perfect. When approached, I go out of my way to be cordial. I want to be liked.

• Home Leila: At home, I let it all out. I’m controlling, sensitive, sarcastic, and skeptical. I’m uneasy and antsy. I’m confrontational; I push Rey’s buttons for the fun of it. I’m overtly jealous. I know I’m liked.

• School Leila: At school—although I haven’t taken a class in over a year—I’m as quite as a mouse. I’m insecure and unsure of myself. Once again, I’m very focused and preoccupied with being the perfect student. I want to blend in.

• Leila with The Beast: Around The Beast, I’m anxious and passive. I’m overly sensitive and irritable. I’m insecure and guarded. I want approval.

Juggling so many faces is stressful, especially when worlds start to collide.

These faces cause a lot of anxiety because they reinforce the idea that the real me isn’t good enough. Sometimes I feel like I don’t even know who the real me is. It’s almost like I become so fixated with projecting the image(s) I think other people want to see, that I loose myself in the process.

The funny thing is that most people are so busy trying to maintain their own image, that they couldn’t care less. But, even with that knowledge, it doesn't lessen the need to maintain my faces.

What a tangled web we weave...

Happy St. Patty's Day

Being half Irish and half alcoholic, St. Patty's Day is my favorite holiday. No obligation to visit family and a great reason to add a couple more Guinnesses to the menu. What's not to like!

I've Really Done it Now

I didn’t go into much detail, but last week I hung out with a “friend.” A same sex, strictly platonic friend. This may seem mundane, but for the sociophobe it’s an earth shattering event. And for me, something that happens about as often as a lunar eclipse. We went shopping, ate dinner, drank wine. It was nice. We had fun. I had fun. I was able to put my anxiety away for a night and actually enjoy myself without obsessing on the who, what, when and how’s of the situation. But, I thought this little outing was a one time thing, a sort of personal achievement that I could put under my belt and look back on every once in awhile. A reminder, if you will, that social situations really aren’t that bad, and yes, I can handle them.

Boy, was I was wrong.

Now, my “friend” wants to hang out everyday. This is not inherently bad, but it poses a few problems. First, it messes with my routine. I have a very strict schedule and any deviation, aside from restaurant adjustment, is very stressful. Even the prospect of a change in plans can be detrimental. Up until recently, I would cry if someone unexpectedly invited me to drinks, (not in front of them, of course).

Second, because we work together, hanging out forces my “work face” to meet my “home face.” I’ll delve into this topic more deeply later, but I’m not exactly comfortable with the clash. I worry about how I should act versus how I am acting and how I’m expected to act. A conflict I would prefer to avoid altogether.

I’m also a very secretive person. I’ve been at the same firm for three years and my co-workers know virtually nothing about me. My “friend” is the only person in the office who knows I have a brother, and she doesn’t even know he has cancer. Somewhere along the line, I came to the conclusion that avoiding self-disclosure would save me from rejection, because if you don’t know me, you can’t not like me. There’s no escaping self-disclosure when hanging out, which in turn means potential rejection.

All in all, I know that leaving my comfort zone is the only way to conquer my fears. But doing it is so damn uncomfortable!

There Goes My Childhood

According to this article, "fear and anxiety destroy the brain."

Unfortunately, growing up in my house, fear was the favored control mechanism. After seventeen years in that atmosphere, my brain must be shot. One less thing to worry about, I guess.

Anxiety Auction

Spare change? Want to support a good cause?

Check out the Anxiety Disorder Association of America's Silent Auction.

A Change of Scenery

As I was sitting at my desk today, performing my oh-so-stimulating secretarial duties, the radio announced that there was a natural gas leak downtown. As the DJ rambled on about “how cool it would be if cars started exploding like a scene out of a movie,” I realized this leak was three blocks from my office; and serious enough to warrant the evacuation of two city blocks. Oh, and did I mention that, those two city blocks just happened to stop at the corner of my building!

This means, that not only did I have to worry about having a heart attack while doing my filing, but also about burning to death in an exploding building. Luckily, neither scenario panned out. But, I spent most of the afternoon in a daze, wondering exactly how they knew where to stop the evacuation.

Daymares

There’s nothing like a good hangover to make you appreciate a regular day. Which is why my morning was so great. I say morning, because after lunch, my newfound contentment began to fade.

Mid-afternoon, I became suddenly aware that my lymph node was hard. Not swollen, as it sometimes gets, but hard, like I had a golf ball lodged in my neck. I panicked. My hands were dripping and uncontrollably shaking as the diagnosis played out in my mind.

“Six months at most,” the doctor told me, as I tried to remain calm.

“You’re lymph nodes are shot. The Lymphoma is in a very progressed stage.”

I fast forward through the failed chemo treatments, to find myself in a dark room. Bald. Full of disbelief and regret. I sulk to myself, wondering why I refused to take advantage of life when I still had the chance....

Then, just as quickly as the flood of thoughts began, they stopped. I realized that my lymph node wasn’t hard at all. Not even swollen. And as I popped a sweet and sour prune into my mouth, (yes, you read that right), I felt a sharp pain in my left canine tooth.

“Exposed nerve,” I thought, as I saw myself in the dentist's chair…

Just Another Monday in Hangover Hell

I don’t think there’s anything worse than throwing up in a public bathroom. The horror of putting your face where countless others do their business is humiliating. And throwing up while standing is bad enough, but add to that equation the “public bathroom silent heave,” while avoiding all contact and you've got quite the production. Something I might even laugh at, if it wasn't me doing the dance.

On the bright side, I hung out with a “friend” last night—by hung out, I mean we collectively drank 5 bottles of wine—something I haven’t done in over four years, (hang out, not drink 5 bottles of wine).

This time I’m serious. I am NEVER drinking again. At least not until the weekend.

Because Anxiety Follows You Everywhere

I stumbled upon the idea of “the comfort bag” over at About. It’s worth a look.

If anyone’s interested, this is what you'd find in my black Jansport backpack, if I actually took the time to make one. Which is highly unlikely, considering I'm very busy doing absolutely nothing:

• JLohr Chardonnay, Virginia Slims, Black Slippers
• Thermometer, Chapstick, Advil, Band-Aids, Neosporin
• Laura Mercier Crème Brule hand cream, Tweezers
• My laptop, What About Bob, Mad-libs
• Mace, The Subtle Safety Ring, Charged Cell Phone, Toilet Paper, Water

Anxiety and Alcohol

Twenty percent of people with anxiety disorders also have an alcohol or substance abuse problem. Those people are my brethren.

I was raised around alcohol. In my early years we lived in San Francisco above our family owned bar, The Stumble In. Spud McKenzie and Joe Camel were my idols. Some of my fondest childhood memories include my role as “Keeper of the Ice Chest.” As Keeper, it was my duty to ensure no adult went empty-handed, especially on long road trips.

Now, I drink regularly; a bottle of wine on weeknights, at least two on the weekends. Rey thinks I’m a raging alcoholic, I disagree, it’s just what I do.

I definitely feel less anxious when I drink, but I don’t drink to feel less anxious, excluding Christmas parties and social gatherings. According to this article, there is a lot of variability on how anxiety and alcoholism/substance abuse co-occur:

• The alcohol abuse and anxiety disorders are independent of one another, meaning that one does not cause the development of the other. However, the symptoms of one can make the symptoms of the other worse.

• An anxiety disorder leads individuals to use alcohol or other substances to "self-medicate," or attempt to alleviate their anxiety symptoms on their own (which does not help, and only exacerbates, anxiety).

• An alcohol abuse problem causes heightened anxiety during certain specific periods of abuse, such as during the actual time of drinking and/or withdrawal states (some studies have shown the withdrawal from alcohol may activate the same neural pathways as anxiety). These anxiety symptoms may go away during other times and usually are eliminated completely after the problem drinking stops.

• An alcohol or other substance abuse problem leads to development of a substance-induced anxiety disorder in which a person's substance abuse causes anxiety to exist all or close to all the time during a period of alcohol or other substance abuse in one's life. This may happen because some substances change the way brain cells communicate with each other, including affecting the amount of neurotransmitters (or chemical messengers) in an individual's nervous system. Thus, substance abuse can damage parts of the brain that keep anxiety in check. This type of anxiety disorder will last during the period of substance abuse, and sometimes for a short period of time after the substance abuse has stopped.

Food for thought...

Hi, My Name’s Leila, and I’m a Star Wars Nerd

Snicker if you will.

I’ll admit it, this has nothing to do with hypochondria. But I can’t wait until these babies hit my block!

May the force be with you.

Going Once...

Going twice....

Sold! To the girl in the corner with the raw hands and the to-do-list sticking out of her pocket.

Safety First

Not only am I full-blown hypo, but I also double as a paranoid schizophrenic. So when I saw The Subtle Safety Ring, my heart soared.

Now, that’s my kind of fashion, rings with knifes built in to thwart potential serial killers. Although my joy at the prospect of added safety was quickly extinguished by this frightening excerpt:

Some 1.9 million women are physically assaulted annually in the United States, and 15 percent to 25 percent of all American women will report a sexual attack or rape at some time in their lives, according to studies conducted by the Justice Department and Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.
–August 15, 2004 ABC NEWS

The Alternative Medicine Cabinet

Who can resist peeking into a medicine cabinet?

The Amazing Hypochondria

As I sat at my desk yesterday, obsessing on my neck and the aching pain that I knew was throat cancer, I realized how amazing hypochondria really is. Struggling to swallow, I flashed back to earlier that morning when several sharp pains coursed through the left side of my chest, “lung cancer or clogged arteries,” I thought.

Then I skipped to even earlier in the day, on the drive to work, when I was positive it was a heart attack as my jaw tensed up and fatigue swept over me. “How could I possibly believe this shit?” I asked myself, feeling my lymph nodes for swelling. But I had no answers, I just knew that I did.

Even now, as I write, the aching pain under my ribcage is a sure sign of impending kidney failure; not soreness from my two-mile walk last night.

It’s amazing—I don’t know how else to describe it—that I, and hundreds of thousands of others, adamantly insist that we are sick. Not insist in the sense that we desire to be sick, but insist in the sense that we believe we are. The origins of the hypochondria are irrelevant to a hypochondriac’s convictions. Knowing that you’re a hypochondriac provides no haven from imaginary illness. Why?

How? How is it possible to be aware of your fixation with imaginary illness and still believe—with all your heart—that you are sick? It truly is amazing.

Devil Speak

Below is a mild peak into the mind of The Beast:

“You know, your brother gets off on something at his dad’s house.”

“What are you talking about? Gets off on what?”

“I think his dad must be letting him do the porn thing or something. Tony’s a real sicko. The other day, he comes home from school and tells me that he had his hands down a girl’s pants in photography.”

“Why are you—”

“So, I told him, ‘yeah, well your teacher e-mailed me and said you were failing the class. So you better get your grades up.’”

Am I the only person who finds it slightly disturbing that a teenager is telling his mother about having his hands down a girl's pants, and her only concern is the kid’s grades? Never mind the fact that he’s not gonna live past high school, talk about a complete lack of emotional guidance.

She wonders why I never call. I wonder why I'm so screwed up.

False Alarm

This morning in the shower, when I was lazily washing my hair, the tip of my finger brushed a sensitive spot near my temple; it was all down hill from there.

As soon as I realized that not only was the spot tender, but that it was also home to a huge, unidentified “lump,” I immediately flashed back to the twelfth grade, when my best friend’s mom ended up in the hospital for a similar complaint.

Legend has it that this uncontainable boil, that suddenly appeared on her head, was actually poisonous. And had she popped it, potent toxins would have been released into her blood stream causing a horrible and painful death...

So of course, I popped it. Luckily, I didn’t die. But that didn’t stop me from thinking I was about to all day.

The Cure

All I have to say is, forget Cirrhosis! Forget kidney failure! Forget breast cancer! And forget the mirage of other irrelevant diseases that WebMD has burned into my mind!

I just found out that more than three-quarters of American women get heart disease at some point in their life; that it’s the number one killer of women in this country; and that its death toll surpasses all types of cancers combined! More than 350,000 women die from heart disease every year; that’s more than eight times the amount of deaths by breast cancer. (Wow, I should submit my resume. A couple articles and I sound like a seasoned member of the American Heart Association.)

Worrying about a disease that you have a 75% risk of getting is not crazy! It’s not dramatic or hypochondriac-like. So, I am pleased to unveil the new Leila V., no longer a hypochondriac; re-categorized as a health-conscientious individual, who is rightfully concerned with heart-disease. Yes!

Anxiety Triumphs

Anxiety Sufferers, we have officially hit the big time! Either that or we’re the last straw on the camel’s back. We’ve now joined the Lance Armstrong wristband bandwagon.
You too can purchase your very own “Triumph Band” for only $2.00, minimum order of five, (not including shipping and handling).

Get ‘em while they last.

Stay Away from the Tap Water

I’ve always heard that you’re more likely to die from getting struck by lightning, than you are from a plane crash. Well, that’s not what the National Safety Council says! According to the NSC, the lifetime odds look more like this:

• Lightning — 1 in 79,746
• Air/space transport accidents — 1 in 5,051
  

And, who knew that you’re just as likely to die as a passenger in a car crash, as you are from falling down, or shooting yourself on purpose:

• Car occupant — 1 in 237
• Falling — 1 in 218
• Shooting yourself on purpose — 1 in 222

Oh, these are my favorites:

• Accidental suffocation/strangulation in bed — 1 in 7,541
• Contact with hot tap water — 1 in 144,156
• Bitten/stung by non-venomous insect/arthropods — 1 in 312,339
• Drowning/submersion while in or falling into bathtub — 1 in 11,289
• Bitten or crushed by reptile — N/A

The odds by accidental suffocation/strangulation in bed are pretty high! Which makes me very suspicious, and paranoid. I guess there’s more wisdom in the old saying “don’t go to bed angry,” than I previously thought. And I’m still trying to figure out how you die from contact with hot tap water.

On the bright side, at least we don’t have to worry about getting crushed by reptiles.

She's Alive

Believe it or not, I’m just now coming into consciousness after the hangover of the millennium. This is very disturbing. I hardly think that a whole day of recovery from two Corona Lights and four Grey Goose martinis is normal. This leads me to believe that my liver or kidney, or some other organ that is responsible for filtering toxins, is not working properly. My Cirrhosis kicking in, maybe?

Rise and Shine

Grey Goose, good; hangovers, bad. Let me say that again, hangovers suck! But what sucks even more is Rey prematurely waking me up because “he wants his breakfast”. I feel like I woke up in 1955 as a married house wife. Joke's on him though, because I only made myself toast and now I’m blogging.

Deal of the Century

According to this article, you add two hours to your life for every one hour that you walk! I’m delighted to hear this because I typically walk two miles a night. Well, "typically" is being used in a very broad sense.

But seriously, is this a joke? Excuse me while I go lace up my walking shoes...

Happy Days

I have purposely put off disclosing the contents of my conversation with The Beast, because it reinforces the idea that both she, and I, are complete psychopaths.

Oh, and speaking of psychopaths, I watched a feature on serial killers last night, even though I knew I shouldn’t have. Unsurprisingly, I found myself clinging to Rey at 1:45 a.m., begging him to search the house; to which I received the response, “stop trying to wake me up” (followed by a "yell snore").

I’m a glutton for punishment. I think I like being terrified out of my mind. I can’t even leave my cube without my mace.

Everyone’s a suspect!