So, I went to the doctor today. As I have mentioned earlier in this blog, I am a bit of a hypochondriac, so check-ups without any real reason comes as no surprise to my doctor. He just looks at me, shakes his head and wonders why I would even ask if there was a chance of me having testicular cancer. Apparently "I have felt a bit lumpy lately" does not suffice as a probable symptom. It doesn't really help that I believe that doctors can see cancer just by looking at a person or smell it like one of those truffle-hunting pigs, and that he is some sort of tumor-whisperer and can talk to all the little cancerous beings in my body and ask them why they keep following me and they could answer that my body was really pissed off at me for living off of marzipan for 20 fucking years and that this was sort of their way of an intervention. Or murder. Cancer is a mean drunk. The problem is, I did not expect what happened today. Today he started asking me things. Personal things. Like how I treat my liver. I told him that was hardly any of his business and that my relationship to my liver is complicated but we are trying to work things out and going to counseling together with Doctor Kahlua. He continued his rampage through my personal life by asking me how many sexual partners I am currently having (Which gave me performance anxiety - I only have one, is that not cool anymore? Has trading veneral deceases become the new Pokemon-game? "I'll give you my glittery Syphilis for the level 50 Chlamydia"), if I smoke or if I consider myself a healthy human being. I suspect that it didn't really help my case that I laughed out loud when he asked me the last question. I am aware that considering my diet (meat, meat, bacon, candy, chocolate, more candy, half a pound of marzipan, meat, meat, whisky, meat) and my aversion to physical activity (do you know who also liked physical activity? THE NAZIS. Coincidence? I think not.), I might not live a very long life, but I can handle that - I live a life I fully enjoy, and that's the end of it.
In conclusion, I do not have any symptoms of actually having cancer despite me frantically flashing suspicious-looking birthmarks to my doctor every five seconds, so that's always nice. Now I can go back to worrying about my future, the health of my family, death in general, the inevitable disintegration of mankind and Fox News. The last two sort of coincide.