No news is good news. It's all ever bad.

"Score? I found some but I think it's crappy stuff. My good stuff's downstairs somewhere. Hah! that sounds like I'm talking about drugs."
"Lip shizzle is the new smack."

"iPod no boom-boom! Me Tarzan! You... Apple genius!"

"Dude, I'm the Guy Ripley of subject changes."

"Psh, whatever, man. Perfectionists make better lovers. Like bassists."

~

How convenient that nobody reads this anyway. I can spill secrets the likes of which no one has ever heard! Or not. But I do have something, for once.

I went to the doctor last week, skipping out on leading freshmen on a lame day of stuff that they won't remember anyway, to ask the nice lady about these dizzy spells and other annoying symptoms I've been getting. So she takes my blood pressure and says, "Wow. You definitely have low blood pressure." Reassuring.

Besides the possibility of anemia (which is likely), she mentioned the words "polycystic ovary disease". What the hell is that, I wondered. Apparently polycystic ovary disease is a genetic disorder that affects a woman's hormones, heart, blood vessels, ability to have children, and insulin levels.

As the doc's listing off symptoms, I'm sitting on the patient's bench, trying to remember my family history. Heart problems: check. High cholesterol: check. Diabetes: check. Tendency to be overweight: check. Difficulty getting pregnant: check, though I'm not exactly worried about that right now.

Diagnosis: Oh shit, I'm fucked.

So I went into the lab (twice, stupid unaccompanied minors policy) and got blood drawn for tests. I hate needles. Bleeding, I can deal with. Just not when it's going into a plastic bag or test tube. I fucking hate needles. Despite my paranoia and hypochondria, I don't think I can handle having to tell people I have an incurable disease that's more prevalent than breast cancer. I still haven't the results yet, so I'm nervous as hell.

And life was going so nicely too.