i obviously needed to decipher the source of my new-fangled episode and i just happened to still be experiencing the burning residue of coarsely ground sea salt in the back of my throat. i rarely consume extra sodium, but i had recently purchased frozen edamame and, much like potato products, they simply require an obscene amount of salt to capture true indulgence.
more importantly was how to undo it. in my mind's eye, i could see a microscopic view as my blood trudged wearily by in a vessel, sludgy from it's new nutrient makeup. water! that was the answer. dilute the proportions. i timorously pulled myself up from the couch where i had sought refuge from the onslaught of what i knew was my heart rate gone akimbo and delicately made my way to the refrigerator. i downed as much water as i could.
a bit later, i decided the water wasn't enough and further self-medication was required. it might seem bold, but i knew beer would thin my blood more effectively and slow down my system. because frankly, my fear was likely doing most of the damage at this point. a self-fulfilling prophecy. right?
i tried to take my mind off "my condition" by watching television and phoning nakedjew's voicemail mercilessly so that i could let him know my condition blow by blow and what to tell the medics once they'd found me dead. i held off from unlatching my deadbolts for the emergency workers and hoped NJ would know to break out one of the smaller windows instead of the large one in the middle once he'd checked his voicemail and become panicked when i didn't answer his knocks on the door. they would need a plastic tarp to cover the window frame in case the sky turned to rain while i was in the hospital.
i had managed to feel better and worse by the time NJ had finished his "recording session" (don't ask) with dave the jew and i asked him to come stay the night so that he could phone 911 once i had lapsed into a coma. being the me-centric boy he is, he assumed i was calling him over to tell him how much i hate him. we attempted to soothe my nerves by ironically watching die mommie die.
i hate the feeling that my body is delicate and fragile and that i could slip from it at a moment's notice. i hate feeling that i could keel over just because my legs were bent and the blood couldn't move through them. but i finally gathered the courage to go to bed and risk dying in my sleep. i considered telling NJ where all of my "embarrassing" personal affects resided so he could dispose of them before my family arrived to clear out my apartment, but i resisted.
morning came and i felt fit as a fiddle. i rose, showered, drank half a small cup of coffee, and prepared for the day. just before we left to break NJ's suma veggie hymen, i sat at the computer and felt it coming on again. i felt the pressure in my forehead threatening to take me away. i panicked again as i sat eating mock stir-fried beef and realized i was again consuming an inordinate amount of sodium (even if the news article placed gingerly between the oilcloth table covering and plate glass tabletop informed me the food was not prepared with sodium... it said nothing of the sodium already in the meat analogs).
i began striking activities from the afternoon menu, but did regain enough ground for a trip to best buy, movie trading company, kroger, and the cedar springs branch of the dallas library system where i was instantly energized upon locating a vhs copy of xanadu. life was grand again.
the night continued to wax and wane for me. dipping slightly during jean de florette and pinnacling with xanadu. no psychosomatic heart illness was going to keep me from belting out such hits as suddenly, so i self-medicated with another beer.
saturday morning was the dawn of a new day and my body sang its glory. hurrah! i was a new girl!
after 1.5 days of non-stop nakedjew, i ditched him and prepared for a lonely 5:00 showing of the life aquatic with special appearances by bud cort . then i dipped again. i just wanted to sleep. needed more sleep. i slept. the 5:00 showing passed. then i'd had enough. at the last minute, i sprinted to the 7:30 showing and battled others in the parking garage and ticket line. the movie was enjoyable enough, despite the tightening in my throat. i feared a stroke, but fought against it.
here i sit on sunday "morning". it's 12:33pm, according to the monitor. the time for illness has come and gone and left me believing i'm finally self-cured. haha. cured. salt. cured. haha.
now i'm left wondering what, exactly, was the cause of the multi-day episode. i've had some time to formulate some thought-provoking theories.
hypothesis 1: salt. too much of it.
fallacies: would it really have lasted for so long?
hypothesis 2: spider bite.
on wednesday, i joined NJ for a walk around the turtle creek area and a jaunt down katy trail ending at a cesspool of a little pond searching for a turtle. it's altogether possible that i suffered a spider bite. after all, there has been a burgeoning third eye being formed by some angry pores on the expanse of skin between my eyebrows which has refused to mutate into a pustule. and several months ago, darren actually did suffer from a spider bite which left him feeling equilibratorally askew.
fallacies: surely NJ would've told me a spider was on my face. fallacy loophole: as mentioned above, the me-centric NJ probably wouldn't have noticed if a meaty-legged arachnid performed a tarantella using my forehead as a stage. also, i'm not completely certain the third eye began its ascent after the katy trail occurrence.
hypothesis 3: i've been using NJ's monitors the last month or so and it has recently begun emitting a periodic high-pitched frequency which might very well be out of sync with my own natural biorhythms.
possible fallacy: when has technology and invisible-to-the-human-eye particles and waves ever done anyone harm?
hypothesis 4: as i lay counting my last heartbeats, i could hear PF across time, distance, and internet waves warning me about the dangers of aspartame and anxiety attacks. it's true that in the last week, i have been drinking real coffee as opposed to my aspartame-laced pussy coffee. was i suffering from withdrawal? or was my subconscious straining from the hundred small and large tasks that my conscious mind refuses to deal with?
possible fallacy: i felt absolutely no anxiety when the "attacks" came on each morning. and there is no such thing as emotions buried deep in one's subconscious.