Post-Modern Drunk: Morbid Thoughts
I'm not depressed, or at least not as depressed as this makes me sound. I swear.

Sometimes, when something minor but inexplicable is wrong with me, I start thinking about that maybe this is it. This is how whatever kills me gets started. Because some day it really is going to be something. Something that starts with "that feels funny" or "I wonder what that spot is" is going to be the big one. Why not this one?

The thought scares me, of course. I don't want to die. But how it usually plays itself out in my mind is not what people are going to do after I'm gone, but how people are going to respond when I tell them. I picture people who are important to me, and how I'll tell them that I have terminal [blank] and that I have [x] months to live. What conference room or bar I'll take them in to to tell them. What order I'll do it. Whether I'll get multiple people or tell them one on one. How people I don't tell will find out, and how they'll respond to it. And how will we all interact afterwards, and until.

This must be what it's like to have hypochondria. But it's not hypochondria if there's really something wrong with you. (That sentence is also what hypochondria feels like).

It's exhausting and morbid and don't do me any good. I know that. But racing thoughts is not something you can just stop doing, even if the end of the race is a massive crash.

Being sickly is sometimes like being alone in a creaky old house. Every unfamiliar noise and inexplicable sound is something sneaking up on you. You tell yourself it's nothing, but you never quite believe it. No matter how much you tell yourself it's nothing, you can't help but think, "But it really could be something."

Except, unlike the old house, sometime it really is going to be something.

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