What did hypochondriacs do in the good old days, before digital barbarism reared its ugly head clogged with 0s and 1s?
It sucks when you get sick or have weird symptoms. It is not as if Dr. Oz will come knocking at your doors with a tidy black bag chockful of instruments designed to inflict a variety of torture. I am sure that privilege is reserved for America's Official BFF, the girlfriend of all of us. Lordy no, the rest of us have to consult Dr. Google, that frightening dark overlord of medical mysteries.
Every time I get a cold, my sense of smell goes south. Currently, it constantly feels as if I am smelling rancid, sour coffee. Per usual, this will last for a few weeks, then I will be back to smelling the roses again. Dr. Google informs me I probably suffer from parosmia. There is no cure or treatment and I probably have a brain tumor, but it is probably benign.
So, yesterday, I am at Pet World in Lawrence picking out new enclosures for the tarantulas (Sidenote: I have found myself with a Flickr troll from Italy proclaiming animal abuse for putting Sofia in such a small enclosure. Of course, I am utterly frightened of trolls and always eager to do their bidding.) After we purchased the enclosures, we were hanging out at the store waiting for the 4pm tortoise feeding. I noticed my nose was running - not a marathon, but a full sprint. Odd, I thought (and disgusting!) I put my finger on my lip and discovered I was bleeding. And I did not have any tissues. Well, of course, I did not have any tissues becaue I am That Mother Who Never Has Tissues. While trying to suppress full-on freak out mode, I strode through the store hissing at my little entourage to follow me.
I am not sure where I am going with any of this, except to say that at least Dr. Google accepts my current health plan. So, there is that I suppose. Good thing, because I am now quite certain that my brain tumor is malignant.
Dr. Google assured me it was so.