September 3rd, 2005

satyr, drool you bastards, bosom

Not a heart attack, no really

I really, really hate pulling the muscles in the center of my chest.

I'll stretch a bit, then stretch some more, then strrrrretch--and feel that "ping" that means, "You just fucked yourself up, pardner." (My sternum is a cowgirl.) Then the ache, low and quiet. It lasts for hours, sometimes for days. And it's not that bad, except that my hindbrain is yelling:

"AAAAUGH! We're having a heart attack! Heart attack! Heart attack over here! Roll out the psychosomatic symptoms! Shortness of breath! Tingling of the extremities! Facial swelling! Swell that puppy, I wanna see her eyes bug out!"

"Um, facial swelling isn't a symptom of a heart attack, ma'am," says my forebrain.

"ROLL BACK THE FACIAL SWELLING! Get the unexplained chills instead! How we doing? Is it a heart attack yet?"

I know not to panic because if I distract myself from a symptom for a few minutes, it goes away. Real heart attacks do not like to watch Third Rock from the Sun. It's been clinically proven. Psychosomatic symptoms, on the other hand, think Sally is a babe. All I need to do is sit still long enough and let the current symptoms (unexplained chills, hypersensitive skin, muscular soreness) waft away on a soothing cloud of Amazon-babe fantasies.

Mmm, Amazons.

(Damn, I'm cold.)