As I started signing up for races and ending up on the receiving end of friendly nods, smiles and waves from other runners I’d pass on the street, I slowly realized that running wasn’t just about therapy or weight loss anymore. It was about the finish lines, the personal goals, and the community of people who welcomed me with open arms and cheered me on in my desire to be healthier and stronger. It became less about the individualized activity and more about the running community as a whole - running races for charity, running races to support friends, and standing on the sidelines supporting other runners as they pushed their own limits. And so, throughout the last two years, I continued to run. I can’t run very fast, or even very far, but I keep putting one foot in front of the other.

I read the Huffington Post every day. As a news reporter and editor (so what if it was during my internship at WRTI? It counts!!), Arianna Huffington has always been one of my idols, professionally and personally. Her daughter, Christina, is a writer as well - she has published pieces for a variety of different media outlets, but most importantly, she frequently writes for her mother’s website. Yesterday, Christina posted a piece called “It Must Be Cancer: How I Came To Terms With My Hypochondria.” Upon reading it, I immediately burst into tears (on my lunch break, at my desk, while shoveling spring mix down my throat). It was like reading a page transcribed from my daily inner monologue.

The timing of the article was also interesting. A few weeks ago, I actually summoned the courage to submit a piece of my writing to a few online publications about my own personal experience with hypochondria and anxiety disorder. Although I did not hear back from any of them, I still feel exceptionally proud of this piece of writing and so I have decided, after much careful consideration, to post it here in it’s entirety. You can read it below.

*Dated Friday, February 22nd 2013

I was a newlywed, three weeks into being a wife to someone I wholeheartedly adored, when I got sick. It started slowly - during Christmastime of 2010, I developed a persistant cough. As a recent ex-smoker, my Googling confirmed my worst suspicions: I most definitely had lung cancer. At 28.

As the cough worsened, so did my internet habits, and I would spend hours online each day reading the depths of the infinite medical journals and studies published online. I went to three different internists, made two seperate trips to the emergency room yielding two clean chest x-rays, and paid a visit to both a gastroenterologist and an allergist. I sat in waiting rooms and read backdated issues of Golf Magazine more that winter than I spent time with my new husband and friends. Working at diagnosing my illness weighed heavily on our marriage, and my relationship with my family suffered as well. But, what did it matter? I was certain that I was dying.

Finally, on a Tuesday evening while a late winter snow fell gently outside, I was spinning around our living room having a full-blown nightmare of a panic attack. My arms were numb, my chest was heavy and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I kneeled on the floor, eyes to the sky with tears streaming down my cheeks, and prayed for the universe to take me quickly. I woke up my husband, headed into the hospital, and waited for the awful news that I was sure was going to confirm, finally, my cancer. Instead, the ER doctor gently put his hand on my arm and said, “Sweetheart, you don’t have lung cancer. But, I have reason to believe that you have a pretty serious mental illness involving health anxiety.” He wrote me a script for a trial run of Xanax and a recommendation for a therapist, and sent me on my way.

Welcome to the mental prison that is my severe health anxiety, more commonly referred to as hypochondria (and often associated with OCD - read your DSM-IVs!!). It has plagued me every day since that winter when I seemingly dodged the Big C, and at its worst, is a disease that I would not wish on my worst enemy. At the height of my occasional episodes, in my head, I truly believe that I am dying.

For me, this means that every symptom, whether big and scary or small and seemingly benign, induces hysteria. It means living each day with the knowledge that my brain is sick, and it is also working overtime at convincing me that body is sick too. It means hanging in the balance between a mental disorder and actual symptoms, and having to decide which is the real manifestation of a potential illness. It is a vicious, relentless cycle. It means trips to therapy, many trial runs of different types of coping mechanisms, and the willingness work at accepting that life is really just one fundamental truth: we are alive until we are dead. We do not have cancer until we do. We are healthy until we aren’t. My health anxiety is everything, and nothing, all at the same time.

There is a self-indulgence in my illness that is often the center of the battle raging in my brain. I am very lucky young woman, with an incredible support system of family and friends who have all worked tirelessly at understanding my challenges. At present, despite an unfortunate encounter with some gynecological issues last year, I am a healthy and capable young woman. I am active. I am social. I am living the life that I want to live. There are others who are not, who cannot - individuals that are struggling with very real diseases and malignancies. I hate it for them. What makes me think I have the right to solicit sympathy from others for situations that I am creating in my head?

I had gone months without any kind of panic until last weekend. I’ll spare you the grisly details, but there was blood where it should not have been and it brought me to my knees. I was in the ER two days later and at my primary doctor with my laundry list of symptoms. It has become so routine for me to be seated on one of those elevated examining room beds, choking back tears, that I am starting to feel like I am giving a business presentation about the happenings in my body. My symptoms are real; however, the correlation that I create between my symptoms and my own mortality is irrational and based totally on Google search results and an unfounded diagnosis. It is my illness at its worst.

As I am writing this, I am desperately trying to figure out whether or not my pain is real or psychosomatic. I have been tracing the edges of the business card of yet another gastroenterologist with my finger the entire morning, the other hand resting on my phone. I know that once I call, it will be another round of tests and potential treatment, another bout of stress and anxiety and anti-depressants. More waiting rooms, more backdated issues of Golf Magazine. More worrying from my husband and family. I have to get this under control. I am trying.

See, that’s the thing about my health anxiety. When I have symptoms of anything that could be potentially fatal, which could be basically everything, it becomes the only thing I can focus on. Thoughts cross my mind that most rational people would never think, like, “I can’t die now because I haven’t paid off all my debt and I don’t want my husband to get stuck with it” or “Maybe we shouldn’t plan a trip for the summer because obviously, I won’t be around to go.” I have started to see life as immediate instead of lasting. It is becoming a life lived in hours and days, not months, or years. If I can just get through today. I’m alive until I’m not.

For today, though I am alive. Alive enough to make plans for a vacation next month but nothing further because I have symptoms of something scary and I could be dying, but probably not before next month. I am here, in this world, enough to live through this again and come out on the other side with temporary reprieve, but always waiting for the next symptom, the next issue or bout of panic. Living with health anxiety is like constantly being given a second chance at life and then being abruptly interrupted and told otherwise. Over and over again. I’m alive until I’m not. And now I’m dying. And now I’m not.*

….Since I wrote this in late February, there have obviously been some developments. At present, I am currently two days away from undergoing yet another diagnostic procedure for the above mystery health issue and my anxiety is through the roof, as expected. I will probably catch some flack for making this information public, and I guess there are probably a bunch of people who will likely judge me, but the truth is that my anxiety and my health concerns have become a part of who I am and keeping all of it a secret has been terribly isolating. When I’m “in it” as I discussed a few weeks ago, I have a tendency to become weepy and withdrawn. But, I have finally come to the realization that having an anxiety disorder doesn’t make me a bad person, or a bad friend, or wife, or daughter, or employee. Furthermore, how can I gain any support from anyone, or anything, if I am not forthcoming about what the hell is going on with me?

In three days, I’ll get another free ride on my least favorite merry-go-around. Are my symptoms real? Yes. Is my brain freaking out and my synapses misfiring, leading me to complete irrationality? Yes. Could there be something wrong with me? Sure. Only time will tell. Am I scared? You cannot possibly even imagine.

I might not ever be published on the Huffpo website, or be able to reach as many people as Christina Huffington did with her article yesterday, but I am so proud of her for writing it. It takes a lot of guts to admit publicly, in front of millions of eyes, that she is a mere mortal fighting a battle of her own and in that sense, Christina and I are war buddies. And as a writer, and a blogger, I try my best to use my words to explain my struggles, and maybe someone will read my writing just like I read Christina’s, and realize that they are not alone. And they’ll be okay.

I don’t know if it was any one thing in particular (like, the trash), or if it was the combination of the pantsless alcoholic next-door neighbor with a penchant for screaming bloody murder at 3:00AM on weekdays, and the daily ranting of the oddly paired recovering meth addict and animated hairstylist who lived below us. Maybe it was the steady stream of parking tickets that I ended up with because I always, always forgot to move my car on Saturdays and my parking permit was being held hostage by the notorious PPA who are only open during the most inconvenient business hours.

 

At the start of 2013, I set a few goals for myself. I like to set goals as opposed to resolutions, because I think resolutions focus too much on negatives. For example, “I promise to stop smoking” or “I promise to lose weight” are some of the most popular New Year’s resolutions, yet usually by this time in March, the gyms are empty and people are mindlessly puffing away. Additionally, I don’t like to set myself up for failure. For me, the difference between the two is that you keep resolutions, but you achieve goals.

Since I am very self-congratulatory by nature, achieving things seems like more fun. And, better fodder for humblebragging, of course. All joking aside, one of my goals for this year was my 2013 New Music Project. The challenge: I would discover one new band, song, or piece of music that I liked each week for the entirety of the year. The music didn’t have to be new, as in, new to the world - it only had to be new to me. So, I started off with a simple strategy; I have been listening to a variety of different online streaming sites like Pandora, AOL Radio and Last.fm, researching music websites like Pitchfork and exploring the suggested “related bands” on Spotify. In addition, many friends that I have told about my project so far have been offering up excellent suggestions of their own (an added bonus has been the discovery that a great many of my friends have impeccable taste in music).

My friend Stacey suggested that I document the project, or at least keep track of it online via the blog, so that I could share my musical discoveries but also open up another outlet for contributions. In discussing my project, I have found that some people can’t understand how music - just music, not learning or playing or writing it - can be considered a hobby, but I actually take it very seriously. At one point in time, I had even planned to turn it into a career (RIP “Brooke”, Wired 96.5 former deejay, also known as my alter ego). But, since the radio industry is gasping for its last breath and I have zero musical inclination whatsoever, being an active listener and consumer is the best way for me to participate.

There is so much music in this world, it’s hard for me not to be completely consumed by it. I am finding that with each new artist I discover, layers upon layers of subgenres are opening themselves up to me. From bands made popular by devoted followings in tiny college towns, to mixtape rappers and deejays on the come up, I have been overwhelmed and awestruck at the kind of talent we have access to as listeners. What is equally as amazing as the amount of talent available is the amount of music I missed because I was completely consumed by something else in the past. For example, my shock and sadness upon discovering that I will never be able to hear the haunting melodies of Elliot Smith live, because he has already passed on. Heartbreaking. And that is what music is to me - it simultaneously can lift my spirits, break my heart, keep me moving forward, and get me drunk on nostalgia.

Since I use Spotify pretty heavily to build playlists and share music with my friends, I figured I would build a Spotify playlist with some of my favorites from the first few months of 2013. I hope you enjoy and find something that you like. Also, please feel free to share your suggestions with me! And, since I’m still figuring out how to USE this freaking social media thing, you’ll find the playlist published in the post below.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, all.

Making friends with girls is hard. Maintaining long, healthy, mutually beneficial and supportive friendships with them is even harder. I fear that I may have to turn in my feminist card for admitting this, but one of my biggest issues with women is our seemingly innate desire to tear each other down instead of build each other up. The constant competition, jealousy and passive-aggressive bullshit combined with gallons of evil estrogen surging through our veins can be deadly to a friendship. I’ve written before about how hard it is to make friends with girls, especially post-college when life shifts into reality and no longer centers around drinking and other social activities. But, thanks to Leslie Knope, shining sitcom star and gal-pal advocate, we have been blessed with Galentine’s Day (February 13th), and an opportunity to discuss the overwhelming importance of successful female friendship. (Get it? GAL-entine’s Day!)
 
If you are unfamiliar with Galentine’s Day, here is a brief backstory: Leslie Knope, portrayed by the dazzling Amy Poehler, is the central character on NBC’s show Parks and Recreation. In a season two episode of the same name, Leslie gets all of her girlfriends to ditch their husbands and boyfriends and have a breakfast-style celebration of female friendship. The party takes place on February 13th, which Leslie has named “Galentine’s Day.” The idea behind the holiday is, of course, to spend the day showing appreciation and love to your best girlfriends.

I think it’s genius.
 
Can I get real with y’all for a second? It is my personal belief Valentine’s Day is mostly a bunch of malarkey. Sure, we all buy into some modern day loose interpretation of the “holiday” involving St. Valentine and Cupid, who is a baby with an arrow (which, by the way, a baby with an arrow is actually pretty terrifying). In reality, the story of the martyrs of Valentine is long and complicated and rarely acknowledged by greeting card companies or the restaurant industry (the primary beneficiaries of the Valentine’s Day holiday), prompting many of us cynics to spout off long anti-V-Day diatribes about mindless consumerism, corporate branding, and retail consumption.
 
With that being said, I am not arguing against taking a day and making extra effort to nurture the primary romantic relationship in your life, and if February 14th is the day you choose to do it, then I support whatever tickles your pickle (HA! I know, gross). But, since we are technically just running around unsupervised making up holidays for the sake of showing people affection and appreciation, then I stand behind Galentine’s Day 100%.
 
As I said above, being friends with girls can be challenging, and often our own insecurities keep us from making honest connections with other women. We look at each other with such critical eyes, sometimes secretly resenting another’s perfect legs, perfect hair, perfect husband, perfect baby or perfect career. And what if you are the girl who has all of those things and maybe even great taste in music or fashion? Good luck to you, friend. Life is often hardest and loneliest for the prettiest and most successful girl in the room.
 
Despite the unfortunate truth (and, as difficult as it may be to admit) that we occasionally play into our own worst stereotypes, many of us work at maintaining successful female friendships because we recognize that they are invaluable and irreplaceable. Having a romantic partner to snuggle next to at night (female or male, because my Galentine’s Day is equal opportunity, duh) is incredible and there is no shame in working tirelessly at building a life with someone. However, the great lengths that your girlfriends will go for you are often forgotten or taken for granted but I bet they are needed more than we are willing to admit.
 
It is your girlfriends who stand beside you on your wedding day swallowed whole by some mustard yellow chiffon empire-waisted number (because that’s the color you picked, obviously) with Kleenex stuffed in their built-in bras, weeping tears of joy. It is your girlfriends who then, years later, will wander the endless maze of fire and brimstone that is Babies R’ Us, searching for the pink Boppy that you registered for, even though there are only two left in the entire state and they had to drive an hour and forty-five minutes to buy it. It is your girlfriends who will spoon-feed you tequila during your most soul-crushing breakups, and who will ignore your ice cream weight gain and instead help you shimmy into shapewear for your first night of being released back into the wild. It is your girlfriends who will take the dance floor by storm with you, and who will always have tampons and gum.
 
It is your girlfriends that you will look square in the eye after the birth of your first child and tell them the truth about what happened, “I told everyone I was fine, but honestly I felt like I was shitting a watermelon.” It is your girlfriends who will reassure you that you don’t have lopsided boobs, and who will pretend to love the latest dickhead you bring to Friday night tapas. It is your girlfriends who will never say “I told you so” even when they totally did tell you so about a hundred million fucking times. It is your girlfriends who will laugh not at you, but with you, when you tell them the story of how you crapped in your pants on the way home from work. It’s your girlfriends who will never miss a birthday and who will always share in your intense appreciation of cake. It will be your girlfriends that you call, upon the discovery of some weird lump or bump or hair or discoloration, and wail “IS THIS NORMAL?!” Your girlfriends.
 
Husbands, boyfriends, partners are great, but they probably aren’t going to help you bury the body. I bet your girlfriends will.
 
I consider myself to be incredibly lucky. Somehow, despite my continuous belief that I am a mostly unlikeable person, I have been blessed with an army of badass babes who carry me through everything. They were the first people I told about my health scare, they are the first people to cheer me on with my fitness goals and look the other way when I skip running to drink red wine and watch reruns of “Girls.” They do not judge me. They even like my big hair. They are the types of friends who know way too much, but love me regardless.
 
This Valentine’s day, don’t forget to take a few moments to appreciate the leading ladies in your life. I bet you depend on them more than you know, and they deserve some special attention. Successful female friendship is so hugely important. And to my Galentines, even though I don’t tell you every day or nearly enough, I love you all so much, and appreciate you more than words could ever explain.

Yesterday evening, a Death Cab for Cutie song triggered one of my infamous mini-meltdowns and I sat in my car and cried for five minutes like a premenstrual teenager. This is partially because one of my favorite pairs of shoes bit the dust, as evidenced by this photograph. Can you find what is wrong with this picture?

Late winter is such a rough time of year for us East Coasters, isn’t it? The mornings are gloomy and dark, the evenings frigid and darker, and office dwellers like myself do not see actual sunlight for months on end. I used to be skeptical of those who self-diagnosed Seasonal Affective Disorder (which I was convinced was a fictitious disease), but after spending the last two weeks stuck in late winter doldrums, I believe I am definitely experiencing an intense bout of SAD.

The problem is that creatively, when I am feeling glum, I just can’t get my shit together. One of the myriad of 2013 self-improvement resolutions I placed upon myself was to do more writing and at the start of the year, I was coming off of a holiday high and feeling very inspired. Now, my life is just work, gym, home, sleep, rinse, repeat. It doesn’t help that I’ve been listening to a steady stream of moody dream rock bands and sulking around our apartment. I didn’t even do my hair or makeup last Saturday - you should see the face that I am making right now for typing that. It’s full-blown Grumpy Cat. What is wrong with me?

It’s time to press the reset button. My friend (and sometimes editor, we’ll call him Fuzzy) has been asking why I’m not doing any writing and the reason is this: I feel like my content is stale and lame. Also, there were a few people who have been so critical of me and my writing that it made me feel a little embarrassed to keep blogging because it’s “so narcissistic and self-indulgent” - a direct quote. I know, ew. Moreover, I need a new format, a facelift, and something to reboot my creative process. The blog will be one year old in March, and I can’t help but be a little excited for my anniversary. Abandoning my page in cyberspace is heartbreaking, and since I set high expectations for myself, it’s time I start meeting them with some consistency.

I had some time to do a little self-analysis and I realized when my life is stripped down to it’s simplest state, it is composed of just a few Very Important Things, like my vocabulary expansion initiative that has me checking the New York Times Learning Blog daily for the Word Of The Day. And so, in a bit of a happy accident, I found my new direction for Stilettos. Someone famous once said “Write what you know…” and what I know is:

Music.

Beer.

Being a novice runner so I don’t get fat from all of the beer.

And of course, all the funny shit that happens in between the music, beer, and running. Not necessarily in that order, of course? Well, maybe sometimes.

Basically, I came to the realization that while being able to write poignant life stories, timely pieces on current events, and well-researched feminist diatribes every day would be ideal, it’s just not possible for someone with a full-time job, a training schedule, and a social life. But, it doesn’t mean I have to jump ship. It just means it’s time for a change.

So, who wants to help me come up with a tagline? I’ll buy the winner a beer. And then, I can blog about it. See? I’m off to a great start already!

In the meantime, drink this:

And listen to this:

XO,
Mrs. Money

It always starts with a sneeze, doesn’t it? Yesterday, I was sitting at work, and suddenly the dreaded familiar first tickle of winter illness rose from deep within my core, expelling itself in a rather violent manner. “ACHOO!!!!!” Gross. And, as any normal person would, I rushed to the bathroom, blew my nose, and disinfected myself and the space. It’s probably just allergies, I thought to myself, clearly in denial. Someone is probably hiding a cat under their desk, or maybe even someone who hates me and knows that cats are my own respiratory nightmare brought a cat in after hours and had it rub all over my cubicle, leaving dander everywhere. I mean, isn’t that the most likely explanation? Obviously!

As someone who is blessed with “seasonal” allergies that actually just last through the entire year, sneezing and coughing has become a routine part of my life. Most days, I feel like I am walking around with a low-grade cold. But, this sneeze was different, and in my gut, I knew it. This sneeze was the usual start of my yearly winter illness which always shows up just after the hard-partying holidays, like clockwork. It’s punctuality rivals that of my menses, which (TMI!) is equally impressive. The riddle of the Sphinx is, if biologically my body is right on schedule all day, every day, every year, then why am I always late to everything? Ba-dum-ching!

So, I’m sick, and what a huge shocker (not) because everyone on the planet is sick, too. Or at least everyone with access to social media, since that seems to be the biggest buzz on the Web right now besides Kimye and their godless spawn. Considering my underperforming immune system and the fact that this anonymous virus/bacterial adventureland has been closing in on me for weeks, this is to be expected. Thus, I thought this would be the opportune moment to take a little time to educate everyone on the etiquette of illness. I see a lot of these violations all winter long, and those sniffly situations are how we all end up in this mess. Let’s get our collective shit together, people, so that moving forward we can weather an entire winter without the spread of contagious disease which ruins our Super Happy Fun Time.

1. Stop figuratively licking everyone’s keyboards and doorknobs, you unbelievable sociopath.

This should go without saying, but here I am, SAYING IT ANYWAY. If you are sick, and I mean legitimately ill, think-you-might-pass-out-while-driving-oops-I-just-shit-my-pants ill, please do not go to work. Do not go to the mall because you, like, totally need some new jeans since your illness has you feeling a few pounds lighter than normal. Do not go to the gym. Do not attend that very important business meeting - maybe make it a conference call? And, even though I know it crushes your soul, you should probably skip that birthday party this weekend. Because here’s the funny thing about illness: it spreads like a California wildfire accidentally sparked by a six-year-old with fireworks during the Santa Ana winds.

If you don’t believe me, then please visit the CDC website. That would be the Center For Disease Control, which (surprazz!) is not just the setting for one of the most bad ass scenes ever from The Walking Dead. And speaking of zombies, how do you think that shit got its start anyway? Oh, right.

2. Call your doctor.

What if I told you that there were people on this planet whose sole purpose is to look at mysterious, gross shit and listen to you complain? And, sometimes, they can even tell you why the unexplainable gross shit is happening, and what you can do to make it go away! WHAT?! Yes, friends, these people exist. They are doctors, nurses, nurse practitioners, physician’s assistants, and a variety of other medical professionals who work tirelessly to help make your life better when your sinuses are so full of snot that your eyeballs are floating.

What’s that, you say? You hate the doctor! I know, girl, who doesn’t. I bet you are also a little afraid of going to the doctor too, because **WHAT IF YOU HAVE CANCER? AND THEN, YOU WILL KNOW ABOUT IT!!!? HOLY SHIT! I feel you, friend, having to take time out of your very busy day to sit in an office that is sterile and boring and listen to someone tell you something that you may or may not already know sounds whack. Still, it is in your best interest to drag yourself there anyway, because that is the only place you will be able to get the good drugs like Tamiflu. And Xanax, so you can chill the freak out, because you don’t have cancer. Yay!

**actual reason why I didn’t go to the doctor for like, most of my adult life.

3. But I don’t have health insurance.

Oh, get over yourself, no one has health insurance anymore, these are confusing times. Pretty soon, everyone will probably have health insurance, but just go ahead and bring that up at Christmas dinner and see what happens. Or maybe don’t, I mean, you’ll have to choose your own adventure.

Regardless, insurance or not, you have options. CVS offers affordable care to those in need through Minute Clinics, which are located at many of their retail locations. Most major cities also offer a variety of free clinics that accept payment based on a sliding scale, and you can find them via a quick Google search from your iPhone 5. My point is, you can get medical attention for an affordable price with minimal effort on your behalf. I am not saying that there isn’t anything wrong with the healthcare system because obviously there is not enough time in the day to talk about that, I am just saying, again, that you have options.

4. But I can’t call out of work! The company will implode if I don’t go to work, then the world will stop turning, and everyone will die.

That’s unreasonably dramatic and also a lie. You are not that important. But, your health is! It’s all you have! I bet you can figure something out. I have faith in you.

5. Just take care of yourself, man.

I bet you are just so, so, busy, am I right? Well, guess what! You are not special. Between work, and school, and working out, and kids, and social obligations and having a life and bills, bills, bills, I think that maybe 0.00047% of the population is eating right, getting enough sleep, and taking their vitamins. What’s worse is that work, school and the gym are disgusting cesspools of bacteria and infected, vengeful amoebas. Said locations are also full of people who are sick but still show up, and who refuse to go to the doctor. You just can’t win, can you? Life is so unfair!!

Here’s what you can control: your own preventative measures to make sure that you don’t become a victim of Unnamed Winter Sickness. Wash your hands! It’s so important. If you don’t think it’s important, then watch  Contagion. I can say with certainty that upon viewing that movie, you that you will never forget to wash your hands ever again. You can also eat well! Of course, no one is perfect so don’t feel bad about sometimes eating pizza and ice cream for dinner, but maybe you can have a salad too? All of those yummy greens have nutrients that help your immune system, which is an important part of staying healthy. Fuck it, go crazy and put ice cream and pizza ON your salad. I won’t food-shame you! And lastly, go to bed. I AM SERIOUS, GET OFF THE INTERNET AND GO TO BED. Twitter will still be there in the morning.

Sometimes, you can do all of this and much more and still succumb to illness. Sneezing and coughing uncontrollably, you are also stuck spending a few days hallucinating from a fever and watching daytime television. Under siege, the illness holds you hostage and ravages you until you are miserable and starting to question your mental health, because you can’t decide whether you are hot or cold, because you are simultaneously shivering and sweating and OH MY GOD, that has to be bad, right? Yes, well, what you need to do then is emotionally manipulate your nearest friend or family member in to going to the drugstore for you and getting you some NyQuil. Take it, and all will be right with the world. We’ll see ya in a few days, because you are about to break the time-space continuum and travel to a magical fairytale land of healing only to return when you are healthy.

These are just some suggestions, of course. But since I really do try to take pretty good care of myself, and also because I am a blameshifter, I am super pissed I am sick. I have plans this weekend! And the company is going to probably collapse without me. See what I did there? Time to take my own advice. Good night all, and good luck.