Confessions of a Hypochondriac

So I’m killing myself with good intentions. Or, at least expediting the death process….. Very slowly through waaay too many vitamins.

The weirdest thing has been happening for the past week or so. Last week—cold-death-snow-week—I didn’t think anything of it. I’d been wearing a black, fuzzy hat to keep my ears from falling off, and, sitting at work would notice little black fuzzies floating around in front of my eyes.

So, I essentially spent last week batting at little pieces of fuzz I was convinced had superglued themselves to my hair. Hey, it’s winter – static cling has a vice grip when it gets this dry. Little did I realize I’ve been spending the past few weeks acting a bit, well, schizo.

Add to that the fact that I keep seeing stars, all Bugs Bunny-like, floating around my head sometimes when I stand up.

Well, today, walking to work I realized the black fuzzies and stars are real, but they happen to be living inside my eyeballs, like predator only floaty and, well, annoying as fuck.

Alas, hypochondria kicked in somewhere between home and work and I was Googling before I even got any caffeine this morning. I found some info on taking too much vitamin A, before I came to the conclusion that my retinas are detaching, I don’t have health insurance for another two months, I’m going to be driving to NY this weekend and that’s when it will happen and they’ll just fall out of my eye sockets, rendering me blind and probably causing me to crash into a truckload of puppies or something, racking up the $500 deductible on my car, I’ll never be able to see again, people will pass me in the street and shake their heads, my clothes will never match again (uh, not like they do now… I know) and I’ll spend the rest of my days typing my magnum opus, but because I only paid attention halfway through typing class in high school it’ll look at bit like this:

eoitjd;,mvn;dhngklfjdhfl;’vms,cmf ;akljdf ds;afn pewirt -3 095 fdkmfg ds’ogfljds.

The only thing that will keep me going is the thought that someday, someone will decide that I was actually the next James Joyce all along and they’ll put a statue of me in some town square…

With my sweater buttoned wrong…


In the meantime, it’s a matter of trying to debate whether or not to be concerned about the fact that there are space aliens in my eyes. I’m a sort of masochistic hypochondriac in that I’ll decide I’ve got some horrible illness — the plague or leprosy or something — but I won’t actually do anything about it. Granted, at the moment I’m in a weird non-insurance transition time (oh lovely third world first world country where someone can lose everything they own over getting sick… don’t even get me started…), so the tendency is to pretend it’s not there… and there… and, damnit, there and there and there!

Is there an optomologist in the house?!!?!? 😉