I Have No Eyelashes and I Must Scream

Dear lord. Yet more proof that I am not well. Not well at all...Listen up, yo. It ain't pretty.



This is humiliating to admit, but, as my longtime readers know, I love humiliating myself (and comment once in a while, will ya? Geez, I know Blogger's commenting system sucks Beluga, but c'mon and gimme some love every so often, albeit as "anonymous").



For example, just 'cause I love to digress, too, did I ever tell you about the time I told the handsome, funny, and righteous horror writer, Jack Ketchum (Stephen King's a big fan), that it looked as if a dog had pissed in his hair? Oh, the look of fright and confusion that passed over that man's lovely face...



It's true! And I still feel the sensuous burn of that particular humiliation more than a year later. YEAH! I so kick ass.



'Kay, back to my latest humiliating confession. Ready? 'Kay.



I pull my eyelashes out. That's right, I wake up in the middle of the night pulling out my eyelashes! WTF? Seriously, WTF?



This started happening, oh, about a week ago or so. Just woke up one night pulling out my lashes, and there are no signs that this behavior will end any time soon. It's not a conscious thing that I'm doing, not at all -- I'm asleep, then wake during the act. I am, of course, horrified. Good thing I have lots of lashes (long and purty, I might add), but I fear that my eyes may be bald soon if this bizarre nighttime compulsion doesn't go away.



Have you ever heard of such a thing?



Also, as I've mentioned in previous posts, I am a spewer of beverages. Laughter is the main cause, but occasionally I spew just for the hell of it.



Not this morning, though. This morning was an accidental spewing that nearly took my life. There I was, reading e-mail, smoking, drinking coffee, when WHAM! my throat closed up, my lungs collapsed, and coffee spewed all over my computer screen and my printer. Then I gagged and gasped for air for, like, ten minutes, even as I ran around with paper towel and Windex cleaning up the mess. Hey, if I'm going to die, I want the paramedics to find a clean death scene. I want to leave this earth knowing that the paramedics and police would think to themselves, "Wow. That dead woman was a clean, tidy, and considerate woman."



Well, so. My throat eventually opened up again, my lungs puffed up nicely, and after much weeping and shaking, I finally calmed down, lit another cigarette, and continued reading my e-mail.



Perhaps I should cut down on the coffee?