I'M GONNA DIE.
I have spent most of the last couple weeks thinking the above words, but miraculously I'm still here.
I haven't FELT like I'm gonna die, just a little sick in weird ways, which, with the full benefit of my imagination, has allowed me to convince myself I'm gonna die. Or at least have my face amputated.
First my nose hurt. Then my sinuses. My ex-girlfriend: "I saw a guy on Ripley's Believe It Or Not who felt like that, and he had a weird fungus in his nose and they had to cut his face off!" I convinced myself I had a weird nose fungus and the doctor would be along shortly to seperate me from my face. We drank and watched "Annie Hall" 'cause watching other hypochondriacs' movies makes me feel better when I'm being a hypochondriac, like perhaps I will survive to make my own hypochondriac movies. "It's okay," she said, "the guy on the show also had really bad headaches." My sinuses stopped hurting. Cue the headaches, and with them, numerous imaginary scenes of stand-up bits I could do like a fat guy does bits about being fat, except a faceless dude doing bits about not having a face.
Naturally, I didn't go to the doctor for a full week, because part of the fun of being a hypochondriac is also being a skeptic. "You're fine," I told myself. "Nothing is wrong! You feel fine right now." This would bring on another weird headache, but the thing about headaches is, because they're in your head, it's not that hard to imagine them being imaginary. I mean, your imagination would not have to travel far from your brain to create the illusion of a headache.
The other thing about headaches is, they're near your brain, so you can convince yourself something is really wrong.
When I did go to the doctor, she couldn't find anything wrong, prescribed some sinus stuff...and told me to see a neurologist if it continues.
Dude! Do not casually refer someone to a neurologist! Especially not a dude who has just confessed to you he googles his symptoms to shore up his crazy theories about what malady he is afflicted with important-sounding medical terms from Wikipedia! The neurologist is not the everything's-cool doctor! That dude fucks with your think-mound! No news is good news in that area, and he is paid to have news!
Mostly I just feel selfish and stupid. I know (and have known) people who are actually sick, and they are way braver with real problems than I am when I go through these wholly fantastical I'm-gonna-die things, which happen about once a year.
The hypochondriac in me is pretty sure I will be diagnosed with something horrific as punishment for writing this. The skeptic is curb-stomping the hypochondriac and going "There's your headache, dickface."
The blog to read is this blog:
It is written by John Frusciante, a UCBT guy I like. He improvises how I think people should improvise and laughs how I think people should laugh, and he gives WAY too big a shit about music, which is about how much of a shit you should give about music, I think.
I gotta go to bed, but here's a song:
I have a bed! It is a mattress on the floor in my bedroom. It used to be Dominic's mattress. It lived at the place he used to live until yesterday, when I was helping Donald move into his new place, and we swung by Dom's old place, picked it up, and drove it to my new place after we got Donald all set up. Derrick is scattered to the four winds, geography-wise. I can't complain 'cause I got a TV and a mattress out of the bargain. Pretty much everything I have I inherited from friends who moved.
I had been sleeping on the couch in the living room. It's about five degrees cooler than my room 'cause it's on the corner and if you open both windows, there's a nice little breeze. But the downside is, you wake up thinking "I just slept on a couch" instead of thinking "I just had a night's sleep." Waking up on a couch can't help but feel like you just took a nap or like you just said something to piss off your spouse and she kicked you out of bed. (The former I know from high school where I'd take a nap on the couch every afternoon, the latter, from Dagwood cartoons.) A matress on the floor is more bed than a couch. (A saying I think would look good embroidered on a decorative pillow...on a bed or a couch.)
Our apartment is above a bar. The bar has karaoke. I won't say it's like hearing loved ones being slaughtered...that implies I love every song. It's more like hearing your whole town being slaughtered. You don't love everyone in town, but you have at least a vague familiarity with everyone. "Oh no! Not Gladys the librarian! Oh no! Not 'Because The Night' by Patti Smith!" Also, people smoke and argue in front of the bar, and if they don't have anybody to argue with, they call somebody.
I can't complain: people shouted beneath my last window, too, and back then, it usually concerned somebody having fucked with somebody else's money. Beneath this window, the shouting is pretty much limited to somebody having fucked somebody somebody thinks they shouldn't have, which for some reason to me doesn't imply impending stray gunfire like fucking up somebody's money does. Also: The Mets.
(As I write this, dudes are in front of the bar singing "Freebird," screaming "DICK!" between the lyrics. Inside the bar, the karaoke song is that "If I go crazy, would you still call me Superman" joint. One of the front-of-bar dudes just shouted "GRUNDLESACK!")
I have poor-vision on. When I'm having serious money problems, I get poor-vision. This is like that red Terminator-vision that allows him to identify his enemies and such, except mine identifies things around me and approximates how much they cost. Hats on people's heads. Strollers. Lattes. It's not things I want to buy, necessarily, but more my mind trying to parse out how people can afford, say, a magazine AND a iced coffee AND whatever is in the fancy shopping bag they're carrying without it throwing them into a panic spiral wherein they see themselves tossed out into the street by a beefy landlord screaming "Gettttttout, ya bum!" and Death comes up and stands over them and in his eyes they see their pitiful checking account balance.
I suspect the answer is a job, which is why I wish prospective employers would, like, call me back.
I'm only complaining 'cause it's fun to sometimes. My place feels more home-y since the bed and getting everything arranged around said bed. I am falling into something resembling a routine, and hopefully soon at least one of my irons in the fire will pay off ( to mix metaphors), and I'll be able to eat something besides spaghetti without cursing myself for the indulgence. I like my neighborhood and I just got a haircut.
Derrick is flying to LA on Monday. We'll be there for a week, doing a couple shows (Comedy Central Stage Tuesday at 8, UCBTLA Thursday at 8) and meeting with showbiz-type folks. Also: we will eat a stupid amount of In N' Out, and I will not curse myself for the indulgence, 'cause that shit is good. I mean, it is what God orders when God wants a burger.