I have the tendonitis again in my arm, mostly from type-type-typing all day long and passing out on various sofas when I’m done type-type-typing. I know it’s probably tendonitis, but in my heart of hearts, I really think that it’s a tumor. Because I always think that something is terribly wrong with me.
The tumor, if it exists, is sitting right in the socket of my arm, pressing on the nerve. It will not be discovered until it’s too late, because no one ever listens to me. By that time, I will have to have my whole arm removed, right up to the ball joint. I will keep an orange in the space where my arm used to sit, and haul it out at parties.
I had a shrink once who told me that she had the perfect engraving for my tombstone: “I told you I was sick.” Instead of laughing or rolling my eyes, I leaned forward in my chair and demanded, “Sick? Why? WHAT HAVE YOU HEARD?”