Not a Frog

Apparently I’m not the only one who’s a mere leap away from death. My blog is too, considering I’ve posted what…once this month, and it’s already the nineteenth. I suck. I know. I don’t have a good excuse, except that I’m dying of throat cancer. Oh, and my alcoholism has been replaced by seriesism (the obsessive watching of TV shows recently released to DVD).

But, back to the crux of the post; I’m dying. A few days ago, out of the blue, as I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business, and surfing the net on company time, I became “aware” of an “odd” sensation at the back of my throat. The sensation was similar to what I’d imagine a large marble stuck under the base of my tongue would feel like. So I did what any normal person would do:

I coughed.

It didn’t go away.

I coughed harder.

It still didn’t go away.

I panicked.

I had a near breakdown in the middle of my office—as I’ve been known to do from time to time—and sat at my desk for the next twenty minutes under my hand-held mirror trying to position my open mouth perfectly in the light so I could see the cancer growth that apparently isn’t there. (And this is probably too much information but, I even tried to wipe said invisible growth off with a wad of toilet paper, which, needless to say, was not one of my better ideas).

So there you have it, ever since that day, I’ve been convinced I have throat cancer. And I probably do and I’m probably gonna die.

A rip off of a post, I know. But you have to admit the five paragraphs netting sixteen words was good.

It's My Middle Name

I have quite the large assortment of fillings in my mouth. Ten to be exact, and all in an attractive silver, instead of white composite, (because my mom was too cheap to care that my mouth would eventually look like a scrap yard). And the fillings aren’t there because I don’t brush my teeth, I do, daily, I promise, I just have a strong affinity for the dentist. But I digress.

About three months ago, one of those lovely, shiny fillings fell out. Okay, honestly, it became “loose,” and lodged in the crevasse between my other tooth, and I picked and pulled, with dental floss and tooth picks and everything else I could get my hands on, until one beautiful Sunday afternoon, I pulled that little piece of scrap metal smooth out of my mouth and left a gaping hole in my molar.

Now fast-forward three months.

The phone book lays open on the table. Bottles of codeine, Advil and NightQuil are strewn across the floor. I lay wriggling in pain on the couch as the exposed nerve in my molar feels like it is being repeatedly stabbed with an ice pick.

In true procrastinator style, I still haven’t called the dentist for my filling that fell out three months ago, and I’m paying for it in pain. If I can’t make it through the weekend, which is a very real possibility, I’ll be paying for it in dollars too.