The Day I Became A Murderer

I was at the doctors today, an event that has become quite regular in my life, because I am crazy in a strictly non-trendy way. So what's wrong with me today? "Nothing" as per usual, which means I'll have to waste four years in med school, and figure it out on my own. Either the doctors are stupid, lazy, or dishonest, because they keep on telling me I'm fine, and I know much better than they do. I generally tell them my worries, or atleast a list of 87 of them, and they nod, pretend to listen, and then fiddle around with blood pressure, heart beats, or something else equally useless. Most people call the doctors themselves and set up appointments ,whereas, when you're a hypochondriac they basically just call you.

"Hello Carmen, this is the doctors office, we have an opening at 2:45, are you having any problems?"

I let a little chuckle escape as I check myself over. Any problems? Bitch please, cancel the rest of your appointments for the week. Then I hobble on my crutches, pick up the ziploc bag full of ice and my left ring finger, and stuff the picture I drew entitled "My Paranoia Release" into my purse. As I start the ignition in my car I worry that the air freshener may be emitting toxic and carcinogenic fumes. Around that time I try to breathe.

I always remember the part of that weird song "Class of '99", you know the song that's soley made up of a guy giving advice, where he says something like "Don't worry, or worry but know that worrying is as useful as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real problems in life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind, the kind that blindsight you at 4pm on an idle Tuesday." That made me feel both better and worse at the same time. Better because the things I worry about are just about the most horrible things I can fathom, and if none of those happen to me, I'll somehow be saved. Worse because if I haven't thought of it, dear lord, it must be unfathomably BAD.

But so it happens that each day I generally get to sleep, and each morning I'm still here.

Today as a new doctor was checking me out I said "Well you know, I'm a major hypochondriac. I generally think I'm dying of one thing or another." To which he laughed, "Oh no, don't do that."

I looked at him for a split second with utter horror in my eyes before jumping across the room and beating him with all the rage I had in my being.

"Don't do that?! ARE YOU SHITTING ME?"

But he didn't hear me because my hands around his neck had already cut of the blood circulation to his brain.