Skip to main content

Noodles: There are just some things you can’t ask your doctor.

So you turn instead to Google and let your questions be seen by all the world, including snoops like me.
I happened to look up a strange sensation I’ve been experiencing lately (yes, I do it too, and yes, I’m probably on the brink of death) that involves a crawling sensation on the back of my scalp.  Since it’s not tick season, I assume it’s a tiny person attempting to scale my head in order to have a look around.  Unfortunately, I wear a lot of hats this time of year so even if they make it to the top, they aren’t likely to see much.
But that’s not the point.
If you ask Google to give you any information involving tingling sensations and your own head, it will immediately throw at you a list of questions asked by similar unfortunate individuals, along with the all-knowing answers provided by an unspecified internet friend.
Some of them make you shake your head in pity, such as this sad, lonely soul, who asks, “Can I test myself for a brain tumor?”
The answer is undecided, but I think any person with even one remaining friend or relative could get that person to test them for a brain tumor, hopefully using some blunt object, since going to the doctor is obviously out of the question.
Another, slightly more hopeful than the usual hypochondriac, asks, “What can mimic MS?”
It’s nice to see someone take such a positive spin on their symptoms.  You can almost see them, sitting at their desk, chewing on a mid-morning snack and deciding “Of course, I couldn’t possibly have MS itself, so let’s see what my other options are!”
But I decided to write on this topic for one reason, and one reason only, and that is this question, asked by my new favorite human.  It is as follows, without the slightest alteration.
“How do you know when something is wrong with your brain?”
To that, I have nothing to say but...
When did you notice you were no different from everybody else?
I ask you.


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Welcome to Weirdness!

Hi, world, and welcome to “The Password’s Lasagna”!  One day I’ll share where that name came from - for now, just revel in the wonderful idioticity of the word “Lasagna”.  Say it over and over again.  Let it flip off your tongue in all its gleeful lasagnaness.  Say it until it means nothing, say it ‘til it means everything.  Lasagna.  It’s a word with many layers.  Moving on quickly now... I have to wonder if, in a year, I will regret this first post.  I’ll think “what kind of imbecilic idiot was I, to think starting a blog would be a good idea?”  As if there aren’t more constructive things to do.  Like...fishing.  Or hunter-gathering (which is the sport of gathering as many hunters as possible in one weekend and stuffing them all in the back of a closed pickup, preferably with a limb or so hanging out and dripping blood).  Or making clay...things.  Useful things.  Mugs and the like.  Or I could be chillin...

Noodles: It’s autumn, all of you.

Hi world.  It’s me, your favorite super sheltered, extremely Scandinavian, strangely endearing pile of soggy, tomato-drenched crinkly noodles! Otherwise known as Baby Swedish Lasagna under an Inadequate Tent. The reason I bring up my origins is this: I grew up without hearing anyone say “y’all”.  I believe the contraction never crossed my path outside of a book until middle school, when it became trendy among my equally sheltered, pale-skinned friends. I started saying it often, with little understanding of its pronunciation, spelling, or proper usage. At some point, perhaps in a fit of cultural sensitivity, maybe after the madness of middle school had seeped out of my neurons, I stopped using it. Except in emails. Yes, my friends, I am an email y’aller.  It just works for the already-awkward group conversations.  There’s honestly no equivalent in northern dialect.  Check it out. “You guys.”  Offensive to feminists. “You girls.”  Offensive...

Noodles: I’m not easily suede, butt...

My house is currently being shown by a realtor to an average of two potential buyers each day.  They come and they go, and, in real estate as well as trail etiquette, they take only photographs (as far as I can tell) and leave only footprints.   Technically. Not to abruptly change the subject, but have you ever sat on a suede* couch?  If you did, I bet you drew pictures on it with your finger, because the material shows light when you brush it one way, dark the other.  It’s a very impressionable fabric.  I have one of those couches.  It’s tan-ish, it’s comfy, and I like it very much.**  It’s in my living room, because it’s a couch and that’s where couches seem to prefer to live.  They like it dry and temperate with a little bit of soft lighting and a nice view of their territory, as well as easy access to the street in case they have a conflict with the armchair*** and need to make a quick getaway.   But I digress.   All you rea...