Everyone who teases me for being a hypochondriac can shut up right now, because the internet says I have cancer.

And in response, I’ve started smoking again.

For as long as I remember, I’ve always been pretty sure that I am dying. But in the past six months, I’ve felt it much more intensely. Interestingly enough, those were the months when I wasn’t smoking.

It’s like my morbidly obese boss said the other week, “It’s all you skinny people getting sick. It’s the fat, cigar-smoking ones who are always in the hospital waiting room, and the skinny ones in the beds.” Now, I am sure much of that is in jest, as he is trying to get healthier, but still…

But I’m dying.

Or something. I feel like my stomach is eating me instead of the food I put in it. And I’ve lost almost 20 pounds since May. And yesterday I woke up with bruises under my eyes for no reason. And I’m shaky all the time.

So they’re testing for Celiacs. But I’m thinking more along the lines of stomach cancer, or a tapeworm, or something they haven’t even discovered yet.

And cancer isn’t a joking matter. I’m kind of mad at my OCD-riddled brain for even going there. I know people with cancer. I knew people with cancer. I’ve seen cancer. Cancer’s a bitch.

I don’t have cancer.

But can you please tell that to Google?

 

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~ by Michele Leah on July 11, 2011.