7-year-old me: "mama look at my toe-- it's peeling. what is WRONG WITH ME?!?!"
mama: "oh? look at that! that's what happens three days before you die!"
me: (ran off screaming and crying... probably wrote a will--- i was obsessed with writing wills at that age)
after years and years of this i finally figured out xyz wasn't going to kill me.
4 comments:
1. I had a friend who, many years ago, told her child who "didn't feel good and didn't want to go to school" to tell his teacher that he had hypochondria.
2. I'm currently in rehearsals for Moliere's The Imaginary Invalid, which is also sometimes called The Hypochondriac. It is almost two solid hours of jokes about things being inserted into and/or removed from the butt. We open in August! Come see it!
Cwabs, when does your show start in August? What is your role? Why do you have a stache? I have to come! We should have a Memphis caravan to your play :)-- is it a play? musical?
haha! I LOVE your mother's cure!! 'Oh, look at that!...' HAHAHAHA!
well Shroni-- It was SO TRAUMATIC the first fifty times. I mean seriously. AND where are all of those wills I wrote? My brother was HORRIFIED by the things I was bequeathing to random passers-by that he thought more precious than gold. What is so sad is that I had absolutely nothing to give away (besides my awesome used coloring book pages) and the only one that liked them was my brother-- and my will only ensured that he would not receive them in the event of my untimely death in three days. So sad. And now that I actually SHOULD have a will I have no idea where my thousands of rough drafts are. I just want to pick up where I left off. There is far too much pressure at this point to start from scratch. Plus, I think Dave has totally earned those used coloring book pages.
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