Dear Diary,

Wasn’t feeling well when I went to bed last night. Headache, stomach ache, joint pain. Too late to call a doctor (even though I could have, that’s I favor I don’t want to call in unless it’s real emergency, like I set myself on fire, or Cooper sliced his arm off, or worst of all, my finger is swollen and I can’t get my good jewelry on), so I did what any normal, self-respecting, neurotic Jew would do – I googled my symptoms into WebMD and looked for a diagnosis. Bad idea.


No matter what ails me – or anyone, for that matter, according to WebMd we’ll be dead by Thursday. My headache? Aneurism, clot or brain tumor. Tick tock. Stomach ache? Bleeding ulcer, perforated intestine or sepsis. Joint pain? Broken bones, leukemia or malignant bone mass. Dead, dead, dead.


I’m going to call, my therapist, Dr. Fishman, in the morning. He can’t cure my physical maladies, but he CAN blame them all on my mother, so at least I’ll feel better while I’m dying.

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