Dilemmas of a Health Science Student

I think a quartz of hypochondriac blood runs in my veins.

Not enough to declare Armageddon when my nose itches, but sufficient to cause heart palpitations with every noticeable ache and sneeze. I swear, if that ingrown hair on my thigh doesn't do me in, adrenal fatigue will. And it will not end pretty.

I've been ill these past few days. The usual: sore throat and fever.

Except the sore throats exceptionally sore, and the fever's... well... making me feverish; Or as one will call in my case, slightly delusional and paranoid.

To cap it off, I finger-felt a slight swelling under my jaw.

What in the world could I be suffering from? Swollen lymph nodes? Tonsilitis? Acute pharyngitis? Herpes? Primary HIV? CANCER?

Ohmigoshi'mgonnadiesoonandihaven'tevenexperiencedhalfofthethingsiwanttodo
plsplsplsidon'twannadiesosoonidon'tthinkicancopewithchemoorsurgeryforthatmatter

There goes my deranged pleading as I suffer bouts of jaw clenching pain whenever I attempt to swallow or move my poor, inflamed pharynx.

I went to my local GP today, to, you know, check things out. In my opinion, it was as lackluster as watching people watching paint dry. *forgive my weird lame language for today. As you know, I'm not feeling very well.*

As soon as I placed my butt on the folds of his cheap plastic leather straight-back chair, he asked :"What is wrong?"

So I answered : " I have a sore throat."

I wonder if it's habitual for physicians to listen to the patient's diagnosis and then dispense the 'I-knew-it-was-that-all-along' attitude along with unnecessary antibiotics, but, well... He was toeing that fine line between money-chasing quack and well-educated informed professional.

He looked at my throat and checked to see if I had a fever.

Then he declared :" Your throat is quite red."

Um... hello.

I wouldn't have noticed the difference if one night, miniature fairies took away my inflammation and replaced it with a full fairy construction crew attempting to drill iron leaden foundations into the very back of my mouth to build the Burj Al Arab of oral cavities.

So, you tell me. IS it supposed to be red?
Or should it have been dandelion yellow? Maybe a shade of Harbour Blue, with a dash of Rainforest Glow perhaps?

So I just nodded. And I stared at him. He stared back.

*Awkward silence*

It's at this point where patients take the opportunity to perform one or a few tasks that will probably weigh heavily on their health: Ask the doctor what is wrong with you, or thank him and walk out.

Obviously, I chose the former.

So I asked: " What do you think I have?"

Okay. So let's see. IF I were in his shoes, I would probably ask the patient whether he/she has any more aches, pains, unfamiliar lumps before concluding with a diagnosis. The doctor and I must be operating on significantly different wavelengths, because he answered:

"You have a sore throat."

Oh, my. I didn't know that. I thought the burning sensation on my pharynx was a way for those fairy workers to tell me they've begun piling work for the past FREAKIN' THREE DAYS.

Ok, so doctor, done.

When I went to the pharmacy, the mak cik at the counter threw me some lozenges and Clarithromycin tablets.

"Yangingyouambilduakaliseharisatudimlmdanstlgpdpagimestimknslpsmknnnn..."

Wow, if coherency was optional, I'm sure she'll cinch the top place of speaking informational gibberish, since some knowledge was supposed to be transferred somewhere amongst the jumbled alphabets that tumble out her succulent lips.

So there.

I wasted my morning, going to my local GP, just to find out I have a sore throat, and should consume some lozenges.

Oh yeah, and throw in a couple of them antibiotics to screw the insurance companies.

Tentative, Sensitive... Heck, They Rhyme!

In an irritable mood for the past few days. If an idiomic phrase were to describe my feelings in the last... I dunno... 48 hours, a 'black cloud over my head' is a etymological insult to my mortal existance, which characteristic of any human, my emotions are the pure essence of my being. So there.

To describe the upheaval of my entire predisposition requires something that goes along the lines of 'endless reverberating thunderclap of doom permeated by vigorous showers of pure acid and hate, punctuated briefly by flashes of hell-flames'. Now, THAT'S descriptive.

So, why?

Why does this occur? The... irrational anger, unmentionable, often untraceable pain; the constant irritability, hot flashes, hormonal imbalance, loneliness accompanied by an overwhelming buzzing of suffocation.

Am I menopausing at such a tender age?

Perhaps, the onset of a mid-midlife crisis? The dividing boundary between temperament catastrophes?

How perplexing.

Whatever hell nigh it may bring, I promise to stay strong despite the inner and obviously external adversities I face. Because life is just too short. *smiley face*



P.S I've decided to tone down my language and sometimes condescending attitude towards jerks that I've met along the way, not because they deserve to be treated better, oh no, quite the opposite.

Yet I realize that being too judgmental just weighs heavily on your soul, and while revenge is a dish best served cold, chilling your heart to subzero temperatures only lowers you down to their level.

My fingers itch at longhandedly tearing someone into shreds of their former selves peppered sparsely with faded fragments of their confidence. But I refrain.

Sometimes, just give yourself a chance to forgive.

Lets Pretend

" Can we pretend that airplanes in the night skies,

are like shooting stars?

I could really use a wish right now..."

-'Airplanes' by B.OB feat. Hayley Williams & Eminem

As a child, how many times have you played pretend?

When the flimsy cardboard box turns into an impenetrable fortress; When the linoleum floor becomes a raging sea; When you sit on a chair and instantly morph into an astronaut, a pirate, race car driver, explorer.

When reality is dismissed, and the world conforms to your imagination.

Then you grow up, and pretend doesn't do it anymore in the cut-throat world of civilization. When pretend is fraud, a blessed escape from a place that, once wonderous and magical, has turned bleak and dangerous.

When the light of wisdom shining in your eyes dim, replaced by a weariness only living can bestow.

When pretense is the only way you'll survive.

So lets pretend.

Talk is Cheap. Hence I Do It Lots.

Money makes the world go round.

So profound are its effects that anymore cranial rapid spinning, causative agent: cash, will centrifuge all remaining goodwill left in me into a pellet of Scrooge-compacted humbug.

Now, I'm cheap. Yes, I'm admitting it. I don't like spending unnecessary money on things I can get for a) free, or b) swindle with no criminal implications attached. And if THOSE fail, there's always Mega Sales to count on.

I mean, seriously. It's a no-brainer. Why would anyone spend a larger sum of funds on something that they basically use for the same duration, exhibiting the same effects? Honestly, a T-shirt from a uber exclusive brand that sets me back onto dollar lunches for two weeks can only get me so far. In the end, I'd probably be so protective over it, that said garment will end up for the rest of it's material life framed in oak over my mantlepiece.

So much so is the logic of the Law of Parabolic Consumption, in that extremes in prices elicit consummate reactions that defy the purpose of action. Couple that with Variables of Miserliness and Outliers of Temporal Punter Insanity, you'll get the perfect cocktail for reasons to be cheap. As me.

Being cheap is synonymous with getting a cut. You must know the golden rule of evasive action against Spending Mines and Bazookas that blow cash out of wallets, pockets, socks and bras.

Have you ever had a paper cut? You know, the little bruise that makes you say "Ouch!"?

Ever notice that how the smallest physical contact with people can often elicit the loudest response?

Try cutting an arm off. Literally. I promise you won't be crying dainty little 'ouches'. In fact, you won't be crying at all. Shock has literally dissolved any semblance of nociceptors you have at your disposal, while your fight or flight reflex gears you up for the inevitable. Adrenaline is coursing through your veins like cheap alcohol in a homeless drunk. Endogenous opoids exterminate fear, replacing them with a bravado that enables you to maneuver out of whatever shit you're in.

But what has that got to do with saving a buck?

Ahhh, young Padawan. You have much to learn. See the huge posters that scream SCAM JOB? Meaning the 'Buy 6 for the price of 5!' or 'Pay 200 bucks per person, and get the 10th person in FREE!'. Those aren't the ones you should be afraid off. Tacky, preying on customer gullibility, the cheapo can dodge those bullets blindfolded.

No. It is not those that Cheap Jedis fear.

Truly fearsome enemies lurk in the dank recesses of places unspeakable, striking when weakness is eminent, backed by the sinister fiend of darkness.

The cheapo does not fear dumbass promotions. The cheapo fears.... HIDDEN PRICES.

Hidden prices, miniscule-print costs. The bane of Cheap shits. The unassuming 500 $ price tag for a dress 70% off, until you ring it up and realize, 500 $ is the price AFTER DISCOUNT. SHOCK. GASP. TWITTER UNEASILY. Or that when you get two scoops of ice-cream for the price of one, you're actually paying a few dollars extra for one scoop on that day, compared to normal days.

We cheap assholes detest those. They threaten our very EXISTANCE.

If we had a choice we would lobby for all sales to be conducted in font size of 89 and above, with production costs tacked underneath price tags using letterheads of 'BEFORE CUT'. Plus, we buy in bulk.

So there you go. Some thoughts by One Who is Cheap, for there will be One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to bind them, One Ring of the cash register to basically scare the crap out of them. It's innate.

We cheapos just can't help it.

When Wishes Turn to Dreams

I was going through, my box of old stuff
When I saw, this little string-bound book.
I unraveled the ribbon that grasped its thoughts,
And brought it to the light of this world.

I read through the pages, each a coarse mâché;
Paper crackled with every turn of my dreams,
Diligently inscribed into the parchment,
Of which each I called a wish.

Yes, a wish book
A book with which my wishes could be granted,
And put into being,
Under the harsh glare of reality.

Ink of desire stains fragile intent,
Of a life I wish I had.
As pen scratch to life, what I always pretend,
I can only hop, and ponder, silently protest.

Hark, there hast been a day!
To which I could proudly say,
That each page had materialized,
Into a form I can grasp.

For that day has yet to come,
For I am waiting still,
Silently I pray,
By my white-washed windowsill.

For until that day, in it itself redeems,
In whichever form, to where I can exist;
I can safely say, with pure conviction,
That my wishes,
Are nothing but dreams.