For my first post, here is an email I sent at two AM yesterday.
Subject: Hi, Mom, I think I might have hemorrhoids!
About half an hour ago I experienced what Dr. Frozenday would probably term “acceptable rectal bleeding.” Having finally, at long last, learned the definition of that enigmatic, apposite-seeming term, though I am elated, I also feel oddly adrift and purposeless.
At least there’s still “do not consume pineapple in amounts greater than those normally found in food.”
The woman at the campus health center just laughed at me when I asked if I needed to *ruin my whole goddamn week* by calling an ambulance, and said no, I should just get an appointment down there sometime soon, unless it turns into that unacceptable type of rectal bleeding, which – I mean, not to be arrogant – I feel I’m pretty much an authority on.
So, if I call you from a hospital or something to ask questions about whether that was an upper or lower GI series I had last year, don’t freak out, and don’t let Dad do a lot of unnecessary driving or CALL ME IN A PANIC REAL EARLY IN THE MORNING, because that means that the terrorists have *won*.
If Sam’s boyfriend’s still there when you get this, please get him and Dad in the room together and make an announcement about my rectal bleeding. Tape the event, if possible.