Hypochondria Geeks for Sale
I found out I was a serial killer
I have to say, there’s no wonder there’s more instance of disease diagnosis when we’re fed such crud from the literature we take in. You can forgive a Geek for thinking that his feeling poorly is in fact terminal with the amount of horror stories we hear.
Its seems to be indicative of the human condition when we relate symptoms to what conditions we may have as humans. Fact. When we observe the health sections in topical favourites like Glamour and Vogue; those high-brow numbers, we digest whatever symptoms they allude to in describing the designer disease of the moment.
Just last week I was reading a copy of a woman’s magazine (left in my house by the girlfriend…honest) and I am pretty sure I don’t have the abola virus. To my knowledge my organs haven’t liquified and if they have I’m convinced that wasn’t them that came hurtling out my arse at a rate of knots but the dregs from last nights party. We all do it; we read about some in-vogue disease and develop the symptoms mid-article. I’ve just managed swine flu.
Investing just 15 minutes to this one magazine I self-diagnosed measles, irritable bowel syndrome and more worryingly; the plague. Only 45 rational minutes surpassed before I was cured and realised that the last hour really could have been better spent.
It is testament to the insecurity of mankind that we rely on womankind’s base literature to enforce or nonsense our physical well-being. Every time I have a rash or a build up of dry, enlarged pores I get a glass and check for meningitis. Silly isn’t it.
Maybe I am the most insecure impressionable person around, but don’t these apprehensions we speak of relate to other zones in life? I refer again to this same drab literature, the kind that rests on the table in the dentist’s waiting room.
On to the ‘feature’ section where I read about a man married 34 years before realising he was gay and running away with a neighbour. As I read the article I became more and more convinced I too was gay and that his personality mirrored mine.
Sentences like “he always loved cushions…I should have known”… I like cushions.
“He was great in the kitchen and always did the clearing up”… I’m a fantastic cook and can’t stand a messy abode.
“Sex was never a big part of our relationship”… call me the slug.
By the end of this drivel I was not only infected with everything from Arthritis to zoophelia but was gay into the bargain. That’s all I need to deal with before I have an older man in my mouth.
The main point of this waste of newsprint (when I started writing) was to tell you about the night I became a serial killer.
I came in from work late one Tuesday night fed up, cold and wet. My desire to be satisfied by garbage TV was fulfilled with aplomb by my digibox. I sat down with my cup of tea and embarked upon an exciting episode of ‘The FBI Files’.
Some serial killer in Alaska had raped, tortured and killed some prostitutes leading to a big man hunt where the FBI utilised all resources yadda yadda yadda … and expert police psychology yadda yadda to catch him. Aren’t they just fabulous.
Now this guy was profiled by an ‘expert’ drafted in from California who described a man with a friendly, amicable nature. (Hello.) With some self-esteem issues in his youth. (Tick.) To all who knew him he was a quiet, friendly man probably with a steady girlfriend or wife. (Are you reading this Sarah?)
It went on. He will have shown the makings of a power complex (this editor gig is going to my head…) And he will probably be a keen marksman. (shit-hot with a spud-gun back in the day.)
This man is likely well educated. (Bachelor of Arts and a Masters thank you very much.) He probably keeps a trophy room with pieces of girlfriends and victims clothing and jewellery as a reminder. (Zoë you’re not getting your t-shirt back.) (Bitch).
We see a pattern emerging. The most tenuous link between him and I results in the deepening of my conclusion. I am a serial killer. He wore glasses and everything. So now in conjunction with bad Arthritis, emphysema, zoophelia and my sodomy complex; I have to get help for my rabid urge to maim women just cos I wasn’t allowed the remote last Wednesday.
What to treat first? What will the doctor say? Do I get it all out in the open in one visit or go several times? Do I go private? I’ll get treated quicker so I can become a rational and functional member of society free of piles, nits and murder.
Wait, I’m constantly reading about the failings of the NHS and procedures supposedly go wrong when you go private, I’m sure you‘ve read or watched those “plastic surgery ruined my ears” type stories.
I’d have to get a back-street doctor, no reputable quack in the world would keep this information to himself, confidentiality or not. That’ll cost me and they wont come with any stamp of approval. Panic sets in, I’ll need an appointment before one of my ailments kicks in, rather sodomy than piles.
I soon develop nightmare visions of Dr Nick Riviera counselling my felching issues.
After about an hour I manage to convince myself I’m not a crackpot serial killer and life becomes normal. I text all the prostitutes in my phone and convince them they aren’t in any danger – I’m cured. I write in the diary that I wasted another two hours today on phantom ailments – I really should stop. Watching high brow television and reading those brilliant glossies, its true what they say; they make you think.
