I read too much. Information is entirely too accessible. Doctors must really hate this. Or, more specifically, MY doctor must really hate this. If I’m not self diagnosing SEVERE CANCER OF THE EYEBALL one day, I’m probably over-analyzing the effects of blood sugar via carrots the next.

Seriously, I annoy myself, people. This is hard to do, yet I succeed at it daily.

Since it’s a known fact that my hormones are completely, royally, and utterly fucked up, I thought I’d try a little home remedy: Progesterone Cream.

This is not the kind of hormone that makes you crazy, per say. Not that crap you put in your body to keep you from having babies or from trying to make babies or keep babies or any sort of baby-related anything, not THAT kind of hormone. Just the sort that might lead to a more harmonious balance that tends to diminish in PEOPLE MY AGE.—Yes, I’ll caps that.

Apparently there should be a small warning on the label : THIS CREAM CAN MAKE YOU UTTERLY, COMPLETELY, TOTALLY INSANE. ALSO: FAT. ALSO: ZITTY. LIKE YOU ARE THIRTEEN AGAIN ONLY WITH THE ABILITY TO DRINK LARGE QUANTITIES OF ALCOHOL AND SOB WHILST DRIVING. NOT SIMULTANEOUSLY YOU IDIOT.

Or something similar to that nature.

After gaining seven pounds in one month, waking up one morning realizing my face resembled that of a kid in HIgh School we called “Boner”, and remembering what an emotional wreck I’d become, I called my doctor. “So,” she concludes, “You took your hormones in to your own hands and now you’re really messed up?” “Yes?” I sheepishly reply. “Ok. So.” [long pause in which I envision her laughing to her doctor friends pointing in to the phone, “It’s Leslie again. We should have her come in to the office so we can see what she’s done to herself. No, Jane, it’s better than that time you dyed your hair green. TRUST me.”] “I’ll need you to stop taking the progesterone.”

That’s it?

“Yes.”

‘k. Well. :: cough ::

There’s a reason people weren’t allowed to read if they were of lesser mentality back in the old days.

Literacy: Handle At Your Own Risk.

About a month ago I found a little mass on my right leg right next to my girlie bits. I thought maybe it was an ingrown hair. It was small. Harmless. And right Down There where I’m never going to see it, and let’s face it, probably nobody else would, either.

A few weeks ago it had grown and I thought maybe it was a boil? Or a zit? Or something very very unattractive down there between my right leg and my girlie bits.

Today I realized it’s grown in to a large, hard mass. A large mass right there on my leg by my girlie bits.

You know me, right? The hypochondriac dramatic freak who was pretty sure she was giving birth to a three headed baby because she ate (GASP) SOFT CHEESE. She, who also was completely convinced the baby would be born blind because she had to take three rounds of anti-biotics during pregnancy and she who was convinced her child was going to die from a three day fever.

You’d also be happy to know I’ve gone on a drama diet. That’s right. Less Drama! More Life! It’s been very lovely, somewhat boring, very mediocre and tame few months. Dare I say Quiet? Not in the “I have nothing to do” but in the “Bygod the world is not collapsing right this minute.” I’ve even maintained this throughout the economy crash and the presidential debates, although it’s been somewhat difficult at times.

So here I am not using google to diagnose myself. BEHOLD the strength of Not Googling. Be impressed. Oohhh you are impressed (I can tell).

I know it’s no big deal. It’s not. I know. My best friend had a cyst removed from her arm just last week. It’s no big deal. Nope. It’s not.

But I’m still a little scared. Mostly because if I don’t get this taken care of sooner than later, I’m afraid of what I’ll find in another few weeks the next time I look Down There. I can see it now: The Mass That Grew In To What Looks A Lot Like One Testicle! Come One! Come All! The Girlie Freak With The One Ball!

Then try to convince my husband to have sex with me.

I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in the world for that one.

**Oh, what’s that? You want picture evidence from the Leisure Olympics? Fine. Fine. Yes. I’ll post them. Twist my arm.
***Are you sure? It’s just a bunch of pictures of my friends and I drunk and in awkward poses attempting sports in our early to mid thirties.
***You’re right. It’s hilarious.