Friday, January 07, 2011
I went to get this dang mole checked on my back.
A hypochondriac tends to lose a fair bit of sleep over things like moles and such, so lately I've been idly wondering whether I have 6 months to live.
Fuck, the stress of being a neurotic.
Not overly impressed with the 'specialist' I went to. He looked at it and immediately referred me to someone else.
"It's irregular. I don't like irregular moles."
I'm now getting it taken care of at the Chelsea hospital in February. He said it's 'not urgent' but 'sometime within the next month would be good.'
I gave a sterling urine sample. He looked at it as if it was an astoundingly good paint job. "Your urine is a lovely colour."
He then drilled me on how much I drink.
"The British government says everyone should only be consuming one bottle of wine a week."
Have you seen your delinquent youth? Have you noticed that you people have a pub on every corner of every road in every town? Jesus.
The other reason I went to a doctor is because I've had five migraines in the short space of two weeks.
Yesterday at work, I had a pearler. I suddenly couldn't see anything, my vision completely blurred, my speech was slurred, the pain hit my cranium like a sledgehammer, and I was marched down to sick bay to lie down for an hour. In the dark. What the fuck?
The doctor gave me some prescription pills. But couldn't say why I was getting them. Not even an estimated guess.
So my nice friend is going to chiroprac (chiroprac?) my neck for me this weekend. She reckons it needs a good cracking and it might help solve the migraine issue.
Am I falling apart?