paranoia

I think I am a hypochondriac. Not when it comes to my personal health; rather, that of my dogs. I guess I never got over my dearest darling Bridget the Rat Terrier's death from lung cancer my senior year of high school, months after I'd started bugging my mom about her rapidly declining weight and muscle tone ("No dear, she's just been exercising more.") Though in hindsight, not knowing what was coming was probably for the best. Anyway, Bridget's little sister Babe is now of a certain age, and since I've been home I've been obsessing about these weird knobby things on her back and the facts that she has bad kidneys and has been peeing all the goddamn time. So I convinced my mom to take her to the vet, and I convinced myself that she was dying. Turns out, Babe is just fine. Except that she has vaginitis. I may not have saved her life, but I can rest easily knowing she will no longer suffer from any itching, burning, or pain during sex.

In other news, I'm off to NYC tomorrow, where an ol' buddy has so generously offered me his couch and excellent cooking for the night. Almost as much as having shelter and food, it is comforting to know I will not have to miss the next epidode of Project Runway. Next post will be in a few days from a cibercafe, as I spend a couple weeks pretending that my life is not really kind of a mess right now!