So, I’m sitting on the ‘commode’ eating an ice cream bar. And I’m thinking.
I’ve had a headache pretty much constantly for two weeks.
My daughters are obsessed with a boy band.
It’s a hunnert and fry in the shade.
I am living one of my top ten nightmares in the form of having to use my algebra in my adult life.
With this headache.
I went to “The Doctor”. Again. They couldn’t find anything wrong. Again. They gave me a prescription. It took the pain away. And I had a severe reaction. In the form of a bizarre anxiety. It’s funny. Now.
Now, the headache is just here.
So. I read this silly book about One Direction that the girls got for their birthday. Not great literature, this. Clearly a product intended to make a lot of people, who aren’t me, some money.
But neither does it take up all the concentration of my twisted & bent mind.
“What if this headache is something real?” Have I mentioned the hypochondria that runs on the maternal side of my family? I thought not.
“You’re just constipated.” Have I mentioned that my paternal extended family don’t go to the doctor? I didn’t think so.
“Seriously, I could be at the end of the line.” Did I mention Aunt Myrtle, who read a tabloid and thought she’d grow a penis when she got old? I kid you not.
“I know. But what if this was the end of the line?”
“What if they don’t meet One Direction?”
“You heard me.”
“What you mean is, ‘What if One Direction, or whoever replaces them in their affections, never *squee* when they meet my girls?”
“No, what if I died and didn’t get them ready to make their dreams come true? No matter how their dreams changed?” This always happens when I’ve been sick awhile. I start killing myself off.
“Wait a minute… I know 10 people who are in continual pain. Any one of them gets more done in a week than you’ve done in 6 months.”
“No talk. Know “what if”.”
More later. I’m headed to the kitchen for a little Miralax and some cookies.