This week I finally paid attention to myself and thinking I would self-diagnose, went on Google. I started by making a list of all my symptoms: the times they flare up, the times they keep me from sleeping, which, fortunately is seldom, the times I roll my eyes and get touchy, which seems to be on the increase anymore these days, and giving the good doctor rienda suelta (no restraints), let him figure it out. Fortunately for me, this doctor still makes house calls and is not afraid to give it a gallop. Mostly, it chewed and cranked and wound itself up like a top, all the time bucking and snorting, then to my surprise, slowing to a crawl, before spinning again, this way, that way, faster and faster, the information and numbers flying every which way across the screen at the speed of light, having found the information, I guess, hard to digest. Eventually it spit out a well chewed cud, meaning a diagnosis, which to me seemed like a verdict, and although not a surprise, it didn’t make me happy either: Google has officially certified my as suffering from acute and incurable cynicism.
Like I said, not a surprise and to be honest, I suspected as much. It also blamed all my friends for learning me more than I ever needed to know about the problems with bacteria, with archiving Mexico’s vast historical records that run for miles and miles, with snotty little eighth grade students that don’t run at all, with dangling participles and lost or missing commas, plus lately, of all things, incomprehensible organic chemistry in Greek!
“Lord have mercy,” I said. I have been worried too much, thinking there is no solution to anything in the world anymore and it recommended a change: cold beer, dumb babes, binge TV.
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