Seriously.  I am a frazzled mess.  Who the fuck calls in sick on the day when my Entire Fucking Life Forever And Ever is being decided?  Or rather, announced.  Shit.  You know what I mean.

Here are things I am good at coping with:

-A lack of clean socks.  Steal some of Husband’s.

-No food in the house.  Go to Subway.

-It’s too cold out.  Get in the tub.

-I am trapped in a leg hold trap in the forest.  Chew off own leg and hop back to town.

Here are things I absolutely cannot cope with:

-FURTHER DELAYS IN FINDING OUT WHAT MY DIAGNOSIS IS.

I am going batshit crazy sitting around the house all day, but also recognize I haven’t the brain capacity to successfully tie my own shoes nevermind venture forth into the world in search of distraction.  If you were here, you might be amused by the hummingbird-like manner in which I have been starting, losing track of, and abandoning activities all day long.  I waffle between irritation, frustration, weepiness, listlessness, and a urge to just get it all over with the jump off the fucking patio.  So far I have failed to read, fold laundry, do dishes, nap, eat, and even watch TV.  You know you are in a hard way when you can’t even achieve TV watching.

Honestly.  I am sure I am making a much bigger deal out of this than is strictly required - after all, as previously discussed, I’m sure I haven’t got any tumours or cancers or other actually serious problems.  In fact I was just telling Husband, over crepes which were lovingly hand warmed by our slaves who then fed us morsels with their pristine fingertips, how nice it is to live in utter luxury as we do.  In between attending gala balls and deciding which colour of marble to install in our eleven bathrooms we really aren’t faced with much in the way of hardship.  Yet I suppose all of us are entitled to the occasional freak out.  Today is my turn.

My god, I’m not even making sense any more.  Someone kill me.