by Timothy Bearly
I examine the mole on my left shoulder to conclude that it looks rather strange. It sort of resembles a pencil eraser, with coarse edges, blackish coloration. Oh my god! I just looked online and read that moles are basically tumors, usually benign, but sometimes malignant. . .tumors! I wonder, is it melanoma? What is melanoma? Should I have them do a biopsy?
As I sit here in the waiting room, I realize that this place is like a second home to me. I frequent this institution like I frequent the local tavern, and like the local tavern, the staff all know me by name and I have them put the bill on my tab. I am the pious and fearful acolyte, and I attend every sunday service to hear the good news. And the good news is always the same, it is all in my head, psychosomatic, “take two of these—placebos—and call me in the morning”.
All of the other patients in the lobby seem astonishingly stoic, like William Wallace before he was to be drawn and quartered. Even the guy in a wheel chair—with a colostomy bag and bald head—appears to be calm and composed as he quietly sits in the corner reading. Perhaps he has accepted his fate, I don’t know, but I appear to be the only lily-livered soul in here—thats for sure. Speaking of liver, I wonder if all the late nights at the tavern are causing cirrhosis.
How can anyone really read these magazines, I ask myself as I sift through them. Wow, Oprah has her own magazine? Uh, unsurprised, uninterested. Guns and Ammo? Everyone knows that this magazine is for men—who are compensating—who are impotent. The Home repair journal looks intriguing, until I read an article with a headline “Does your home have asbestos?”. So I grab a copy of Food Magazine to learn about “margarine and heart disease. Then I reach for a health magazine which reads “Is your fear of death killing you?” goddammit! enough already!
Forget it, I am too trepidatious to read anyway. Shaking like a kid with ADHD—that had a redbull instead of taking his methylin pills. Gazing around the room in nervous anticipation, wondering, how/when will I die? Will it be slow and agonizing, or quick and painless. Perhaps I will die of a heart attack, with cock in hand at 2:00 am, masturbating to tentacle porn. My lady will find my corpse in the morning, and upon looking at the computer screen, she will be too disgusted and amused to mourn. I wonder, does wanking increase or decrease the risk of prostate cancer?
“Tom Beardsley, The doctor is ready to see you now”
“Well Tom, the test results came back negative. . . .again,” said the doctor.
“Are you sure, maybe they missed something.”
“I am sure.” he responded in an irked voice.
“Could you check me for mesothelioma then.”
“By the way, hypothetically, if one were to wank five times a day. . .”
“Tom! You are perfectly healthy! But. . .”
“But?” I waited
“Well, did you see that doctor I referred you too”
“No, I didn’t, isn’t he a doctor of psychiatry?”
“Exactly” he simpered

0 thoughts on “Hypochondriac

  1. psychiatrists too are kin to make-believe, the most insane of us all, they earnestly feel the most sane and have studied ‘subject matters’ the least. evade at all points

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