"Great news...you're dying!"
I wouldn't exactly call myself a hypochondriac. I'm just convinced that I'm 99 percent more likely to die from a fatal disease than anyone else. And I know who to blame. Author of 90s teen deathporn, Lurlene McDaniel.
Let me explain.
Last week I went to the dermatologist to get on Accutane. I'm not 100 percent sure what's in Accutane--maybe a delicate mixture of cat urine and asbestos--but it's irrelevant. If it will give me clearer skin I would probably ingest it.
So to get on Accutane you have to like cross-your-heart-hope-to-die-double-condom pinky swear PROMISE not to get preggers. Because YOU WILL DIE or birth a gremlin if you do. This means they basically put a lowjack on your uterus--frequent check-ins to make sure you haven't been sperminated, blood tests, and you have to be on birth control a full month and "pass" a pregnancy test before the doctor will prescribe the drug. Not really a problem for me since I'm unintentionally celibate but the fact remains.
I go to the laboratory expecting to pop a squat on an e.p.t but the nurse saved me from that potentially embarrassing scenario by taking a blood sample instead. Then I payed my $35 co-pay and it was "thank you, come again, hope you're not knocked up" and I was on my way.
But then.
The next day I got a voice message from what I perceived to be a very concerned-sounding hospital employee asking me to call her back. That's all she said. No explanation of why. So of course my mind went where any insane person's would go: "Oh my god you have arm pit cancer."
This is because a few months earlier I found this super-sexy growth in my underarm region. I will spare you the deets but I had been mildly concerned about it ever since I decided to diagnose myself via the Internet, the worst possible idea short of diagnosing yourself via the scripted words of Dr. McDreamy. Of course, the Internet told me I was going to die because in some (rare) cases, bumps in the underarm could be a sign of breast cancer, though it is usually just swollen lymph nodes. Obviously I should have just had it tested but decided to wallow in unjustified self-pity and think about the work of Lurlene McDaniel.
The February issue of BUST magazine had a great article by Marni Grossman called "Die, Die, My Darling," chronicling the Lurlene effect aka "sick lit" on our lives. Chances are, your school library had about 20 Lurlene McDaniel books with cryptic titles such as "One Last Wish" and "Too Young to Die." My best friend in 8th grade introduced me to Lurlene McDaniel books and I have to say, they were pretty captivating for a junior high-schooler. When you're 14, you crave angst. To paraphrase Angela Chase, if you don't have it, you'll, like, die or something. That's why we need teen dramas. Marissa Cooper will OD in Tijuana so you don't have to. If you're an 8th grader in the mandatory Accelerated Reading program, Lurlene McDaniel fills that void.
In case you're unfamiliar with Lurlene's work, it was not uncommon for an Amish model-type to fall in love with a girl with bone cancer and bring her home to meet his beautiful Benetton Amish-chic fam. For every girl stricken with a terminal illness and a broken home, there was a doe-eyed sandy blond to dry her tears. And it was fucking beautiful. As far as I'm concerned, Nicholas Sparks can wipe that shit eating grin off his fat face and get down and lick Lurlene McDaniel's Talbot's fashion loafers.
And so I met and fell in love with Ethan, the handsome Amish boy in "Lifted Up By Angels" and my teenage world was changed. And though I turned 17 and thankfully did not die, I unknowingly carried a small piece of Lurlene-ism with me. That's probably why I jump to conclusions about a call intended to inform me that I am not in fact pregnant. It's why, deep inside, there's a small, sick, and twisted part of my brain that harbors death-bed fantasies about a fictional X-Ray technician named Kieran who looks oddly like Ryan Phillipe in a soft light.
Thanks, Lurlene.
But no really thanks for never writing a book about a werewolf who falls in love with an infant.
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