Where to Begin?

Oh, I know! (Cue heavenly background music)...

HAAAALLLLLLLELUJAHHHHH!
HAAAALLLLLLLELUJAHHHHH!
HALELUJAH! HALELUJAH!
HA-LE-LU-JAH!

The Beast and my brother have departed after an eight day visit. (I never thought I would say those words).

It was an eight day visit that started with a bang as I spotted The Beast in baggage claim and cheerfully strolled over to her, “You look great!” I exclaimed, lying of course, but making an effort to be cordial, “You’ve lost so much weight!” “I have,” she replied, nose snarled in true Beast fashion, “but what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you at this weight. Are you okay? Are you sick? When’s the last time you saw the doctor?”

Um, yeah, I love you too mom. It was about there that I peeled the phony smile off my face and succumbed to what I was in for: eight days of torment.

That night was disastrous. She had apparently started drinking that morning on the plane and by the time we sat down for dinner and finished our fourth bottle of wine she was a belligerent, raging drunk. Squishing her pasta in her hands at the dinner table, breaking wine glasses, making uncalled for and hostile remarks towards Rey. When we sat down to watch The Simpsons Movie she was uncontainable. Screaming profanities, kicking her feet and shaking her head, parroting the movie lines. It was like we were in a bad movie, instead of watching one, (only The Simpsons wasn’t a bad movie, it was actually pretty awesome).

And so the rest of the visit went. She forced me to go shopping on the busiest shopping day of the year, where she proceeded to talk to any willing individual in the stores. She let my cat outside on Christmas Eve who subsequently went missing for the next four hours. She shook her head and scoffed every time I dared to eat. She was restless and repeatedly asked what we were going to do next.

But all that being said, and although I’ve developed an eating disorder and feel like I’ve been beat with a baseball bat, the visit wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Now, that being said, you can bet your ass there won’t be another visit for a very long time.

Merry Fucking Christmas Eve

Shoot Me Now

The Beast and my brother are in town for eight days. They flew in yesterday and I’m already on the verge of suicide.

I’ll fill you in later, assuming I don’t eat a bottle of sleeping pills by then.

You Can Always Count on WebMD

It never fails! When I’m not surfing “It Which Must Not be Named” (read WebMD) on my own accord, that bastard site tracks me down and pumps the fear of god into me. We’re connected like Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.

Now given, the connection could have something to do with me foolishly signing up to receive a newsletter from that ungodly organization, but is it really necessary to fill my inbox with subject lines that read “Are Your Arteries Headed for Disaster?” and “Sudden Death Gene Strikes Women Most.” No, I don’t think so.

So now, thanks to You Know Who, what started as a pleasant morning has turned into an afternoon obsession with atherosclerosis; apparently, America’s number one killer. And also thanks to You Know Who, things like: “Atherosclerosis is dangerous because it's so stealthy” and “Diseases caused by atherosclerosis also lead to chronic pain, kidney failure, blindness, and even impotence” and “Athero is linked to nearly 1 in 4 deaths in the United States” are running rampant through my mind!

So in the wonderful holiday spirit of giving, you too can get the shit scared out of you by clicking here.

Wishing I was born in the UK

It has just come to my attention, while mindlessly surfing the web, that UK residents are afforded a luxury—a mighty fine luxury I might add—that I, in the states, am not; a do-it-yourself liver test. How remarkably ingenious!

You can find out the condition of your liver without even putting the beer down. All you do is prick your finger, send the blood and your hundred pounds to the lab, wait ten days, and voila, color coded results show up in the post (as they call it in those parts).

“If it’s green, ‘your liver enzyme levels are within the recommended normal range.’

If amber, ‘your liver health is less than optimal and you need to look at making changes to your lifestyle.’

And if red, ‘even mild liver test abnormalities may be an early clue to liver disease. You must make significant changes to your lifestyle to protect your liver in the future.’”

What kind of backward ass country am I living in? I can walk out my front door and get a gun and an abortion within a block of the house, but I can’t get a god damn home liver test. I need to relocate.

Oh, and you lucky UK residents can purchase a bloody kit, here.

Front Lines

I didn’t have the chance to mention it, because I was obsessively cleaning my house for the last two weeks, but Rey graduated (with two B.A.’s) last weekend, and thirty of his out-of-state relatives were there to applaud him.

That means thirty of his relatives, including his neurotic dad, delusional sister, and super annoying, super tattooed cousin from SAN FRANCISCO were in my house; in my personal—but very clean space—at once. And despite all the anxiety I experienced leading up to the event, I must admit that I actually enjoyed it. I basked in the company.

It could’ve been the alcohol that made it more manageable, but I almost felt like my social anxiety was non-existent. No sweaty palms. No heart flutters. No blushing. No shaky voice. I did feel my ears turn red when Rey’s mom thanked me during her dinner toast, but aside from that, I was like a pro.

Now all that being said, I awoke the morning after they left with severe, right flank pain and met the following days with heart attack-like symptoms.

I’m thankful the social anxiety is at a low, but the hypochondria is suddenly at a high. One more thing I didn’t mention is The Beast and my brother are coming in to town and staying at my house for an entire week over Christmas; maybe that’s why I’m suddenly dying.

If Perspective is Reality, I'm Dead

I cannot even begin to explain HOW REAL the “heart attack” I “had” today felt. It started at about 3:15 p.m. as I sat in our dimly lit conference room crosschecking an agreement with a coworker. I was reading aloud, she was silently following along, when mid-sentence, an intense stabbing sensation coursed through the left side of my chest.

Blinded by pain, I jumped up from my chair and grabbed my breast. Words were spewing from my mouth, (a problem I usually only encounter when drinking). “Holy shit, I think I’m having a heart attack!” I screamed.

My coworker, being an older woman, who’s actually had a heart attack, tilted her head and looked at me with unsympathetic eyes. “Your arm would hurt like hell and you’d be nauseous. You’re fine.”

Little did she know that as I stood slumped over that oversized table, gasping for air, and clawing at my chest, my arm did hurt, and it wouldn’t be long before the nausea set in. But before I could convey these seemingly infinitesimal details, and ASK HER TO CALL 911, her turquoise eyes shot to the black and white cityscape hanging on the wall behind me. “Why is that picture crooked!?! What the hell does that cleaning crew do in here at night? I’m gonna have to call management...”

The agreement fell to the floor as I limped out the conference room towards my desk. I could actually feel the artery bursting as I stumbled through the office. I could feel myself drifting away, when a sudden burst of nausea brought me back to this world. And then it happened, I started to dry heave, (right there in the middle of my office).

In a fit of panic, which it apparently was, I fled to the bathroom, gagging the whole way there. I locked myself in the far back stall and stood with my head in my hands for what felt like hours as stabbing pains continued to course through my chest.

Five minutes later, calmed only slightly by deep breathing, but still in a fog, I emerged from the stall and hobbled back to my office. The daziness lasted all afternoon. The pains have been sporadic. If what I experienced this afternoon wasn't at least a minor heart attack, I'm on the brink

Afflicted

First of all, I must apologize to my blog, because if it were the French Bull Dog I’ve been so yearning for, it’d be dead in the back yard right now.

Second, I’m dying. And not that it did, but my absence was not meant to convey a period of wellness. Actually, it wasn’t meant to convey anything at all, except that I’m a lazy procrastinator. Writing hasn’t been all that appealing to me lately. In reality, nothing has been all that appealing, except for drinking, so that’s what I’ve been doing; throwing back bottles of wine amidst fits of hypochondria.

Among other things, I’m wholly convinced that my eye ball is going to explode at any moment. Over the past week, I’ve been experiencing severe pressure in my eye cavity whenever I move my head, blink or bend down. It essentially feels like being repeatedly hit in the face with a baseball.

Also, I’m suffering from what I’ve determined to be Multiple Sclerosis or Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, due to the crippling pains that have been plaguing my arms. I’m talking stabbed with an ice pick pains, that leave me in tears.

Oh, and I simultaneously have colon and cervical cancer.

So, um, yeah. Basically, I’m a basket case right now.