The Test Results Are In

For the last several days I've been a bit ill. Rather than regale you with the details let's everyone assume that I've been in severe distress of the gastrointestinal kind. Yesterday I went to the doctor and had a day full of 'Gee. I've never done that before.' and other general inappropriateness. It's kind of like being on your period except for the fact that if you get tired of your period you can remove your uterus. It's much more difficult to remove your intestines. And if you're wondering they won't remove your uterus without cause. I asked last year and they got surprisingly ill about it.

Anyways, long story short, the doctor's office calls me today to tell me that my blood work was normal and that my white blood count is good. Which means I don't have an infection. Which means it's probably cancer. Or someone has poured salt on me and I'm turning inside out like a slug. But most likely, it's cancer.
Now I'll have to have chemotherapy and my hair will fall out. And the only men I'll ever get then are the sickos that have bald-chick fetishes and are psychologically and emotionally stunted because they spent their formative years scraping calluses off of grandpa's gnarly feet and now are compelled to find someone to take care of. Not to mention that my hair is really the only thing I've got going for me. Well that and my skin. I do have great skin. I also have a melon for a head, which doesn't lend itself well to baldness.

So I say to the nurse on the phone: 'So we (I like to say 'We' so that they feel involved in my decision making process. I feel it makes them more dedicated to my wellness.) still don't know why I'm sick?' She then says 'Are we doing other cultures?' 'Yes. You are doing cultures.' (I said 'You' there because I'm not doing anything but dying, obviously.) 'Oh. We don't have those results yet.' 'So everything is not normal then is it?' 'Your bloodwork is.'

Great. I'm giving birth to Sigourney Weaver's Alien; it is literally crawling around in my abdominal cavity kicking the shit out of my spleen and using my stomach for a trampoline while swinging from my small intestines like a chandelier, but my blood is normal. So much so that the doctor's office felt compelled to call and tell me. Aren't I the lucky one?

I just wanted to inform you, blog readers that I'll probably be dead soon. And if I don't die, I think I can save my eggs but they'll have a better chance of being viable if they're fertilized. So if any of you have an in with George Clooney or any other super-successful and/or talented, attractive, (they must be attractive) men that are interested in being a father please have them email me. I figure we can practice the old school way until my chemo so my ovaries get the idea and start making eggs. But please let them (the applicants for future fathers) know they may end up as a single parent.

I figure my chances of getting hit by a bus have exponentially increased due to my proximity. Plus I'm clumsy. It doesn't bode well for survival of the fittest any way you frame it.