Because I left my old job in September, I no longer have health insurance. When I was still insured, I was very thankful to be covered, and I did my best to follow a regular schedule of doctor visits. Routine physicals, dental cleanings, ladyparts exams, and therapy visits were all part of my life. It was good.
Now I'm six weeks out of coverage, and everything is going to hell. Maybe it just seems that way to me, because as a hypochondriac, I'm prone to diagnosing certain ailments that may or may not be present. When you're insured, you can say to yourself, "Well, if I do have chronic elbowitis, at least it will be covered, and I can have the nice doctor fix me." But when you're not insured, the hypochondria tends to run rampant.
This is why, in the last week, I have:
1. Wondered if the stubborn pimple on my chin is not actually a pimple, but a egg sac of miniscule baby spiders, just waiting to burst open and release dozens of tarantulae or black widows on my face. Which, of course, will lead to me swallowing spiders in my sleep.
2. Toyed with the idea of purchasing a pregnancy test, due to weirdly long-lasting cramps that were not immediately followed by the Big P. "Oh my god, maybe this is what pregnancy feels like," I thought frantically. "And what I'm feeling is not cramping, but cells multiplying rapidly to become a terrifying, breast-biting baby." It was a purely logical thought process, marred only by the absence of coitus during the weeks (months) [years?] previous.
3. Fancied myself a rebel for leaving the house without wearing sunblock... for fifteen whole minutes.
4. Sent Jesse this text message in a panic: "Currently am freakhog (meant to type "freaking" but this is what comes up first) out over a mole change on my back. It did not look like this before. Oh god." Until I figure out how much it will cost to go see a dermatologist about this, my plan of action is to cover it with a band-aid, in case it's really not a mole but an egg sac of miniscule baby spiders...
Now I'm six weeks out of coverage, and everything is going to hell. Maybe it just seems that way to me, because as a hypochondriac, I'm prone to diagnosing certain ailments that may or may not be present. When you're insured, you can say to yourself, "Well, if I do have chronic elbowitis, at least it will be covered, and I can have the nice doctor fix me." But when you're not insured, the hypochondria tends to run rampant.
This is why, in the last week, I have:
1. Wondered if the stubborn pimple on my chin is not actually a pimple, but a egg sac of miniscule baby spiders, just waiting to burst open and release dozens of tarantulae or black widows on my face. Which, of course, will lead to me swallowing spiders in my sleep.
2. Toyed with the idea of purchasing a pregnancy test, due to weirdly long-lasting cramps that were not immediately followed by the Big P. "Oh my god, maybe this is what pregnancy feels like," I thought frantically. "And what I'm feeling is not cramping, but cells multiplying rapidly to become a terrifying, breast-biting baby." It was a purely logical thought process, marred only by the absence of coitus during the weeks (months) [years?] previous.
3. Fancied myself a rebel for leaving the house without wearing sunblock... for fifteen whole minutes.
4. Sent Jesse this text message in a panic: "Currently am freakhog (meant to type "freaking" but this is what comes up first) out over a mole change on my back. It did not look like this before. Oh god." Until I figure out how much it will cost to go see a dermatologist about this, my plan of action is to cover it with a band-aid, in case it's really not a mole but an egg sac of miniscule baby spiders...
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