Hypochondriacs and a good pizza

I am a hypochondriac.

I would never have made it through med school had I ever aspired, simply because I would have had every symptom and wasted away of my many ails, in finest Camille fashion, well before graduation.

Today I went to play my first ever game of laser tag. Wow! I'm hooked.

Tonight I'm having symptoms that are sure to be DVT (Deep Vein Thrombosis) and I'm going to die of an aneurism in my sleep, or in three days, as that unfortunate reporter did when traveling with the troops in Iraq.

If that happens, Peekay, you grab my computers and destroy EVERYTHING incriminating! Actually, just destroy everything anyway, incriminating or not. I don't want any posthumous publications, thank you. Heck, if I can't get published while I'm living then I don't want it to happen when I'm not here to enjoy my fame. That would be like winning the lottery and dying before you can claim it, like poor Ned in "Waking Ned Devine" ... that makes TWO obscure movies in one blahg! I am the original, walking talking IMDB! Watch out, Kevin Bacon, I got your Seven Levels right here, baby! ;D

So, back to my presumed death and what to do about me: We should talk tombstones. Every good hypochrondriac knows what they want theirs to say. Mine might say "The calla lilies are in bloom again..." to honor my bad Greta Garbo impressions, dying young and tragically and of course, my love of calla lilies, but what I REALLY want on my tombstone are some anchovies, black olives, mushrooms and tomatoes, please. ;D