It takes a special kind of neurotic to have the layered fears that I do about mutant cell growth: the first layer is an ordinary hypochondria and pessimism that I'll come down with a fatal disease; the second layer is a reality check--oh don't be ridiculous, those headaches aren't a tumor; and then the third layer is fear again, along the lines of, "It's exactly that dismissive attitude that Fate *wants* you to have, so that when it springs the big C on you, the joke is that much funnier."
Anyway. I know it's probably benign, but I brood.
In other news, in defiance of Fate perhaps, I've bought a bed--an actual bed! which I didn't have before--with a new mattress, a mattress with taut young abs if you will, and the same day bought an iPod. I also binged a little on my first pair of prescription sunglasses ever, in the hopes that they would cut down on the odds of a traffic fatality, mine or someone else's, along with regular glasses, which are very Harry Potterish. I won't say I resemble Harry as in a mirror, but on the spectrum of "you're delusional!" to "that's uncanny!" I've been nudged a bit further toward cuteness, I think. I also drove around Washington's Olympic Peninsula for a few days, which was pretty neat, despite that it tormented me with bad food and constant road work. I read Bill Bryson during my trip, but before that I read a Stephen King book, Insomnia, and have to say it didn't grip me. I used it mostly as a sleep aid, slogging through to the bitter end. And yet I want to read another; give him another try, you know.
I return to work on August 30, reminding myself that "You can't win the lottery if you don't *play* the lottery, Anna." Yep. Yep. Sigh.