The Heart Attack

Yesterday, I was just sure I was having a heart attack. Now, I know what you're thinking, "Bunny, fit in some cardio, for chrissakes!" Cardio and I have been in a love/hate thing since puberty. My resting heart rate is, like, twelve beats per minute. You may be thinking "Bunny, quit smoking crack," but alas, I'm quite clean lately. That whole "snorting" thing was just me paying artistic tribute via Miss Cutler's battered nasal linings--I'm so clever! There's just no reason I should be having a heart attack (aside from the initial impact of methane that's on a ceaseless slow leak from the anus of my current housemate).

I jumped up from my desk at work and started jogging through the mounting stations, statues and other decorative bullshit to the ladies' room, for what reason, I know not. It wasn't like being close to a toilet was going to make my heart start beating again. I ran down the back hallway, heels click-click-clicking, hands dramatically clutching my blouse, sweat beginning to make little rings in the armpits of it, and by the time I reached the breakroom, the entire sensation was gone. Poof. Nothing but the smell of the Kona and the dripping of the Kona. I stopped, and said aloud, "What the fuck?"

My pulse had been a little "erratic" that morning. Nothing too off, but then I did go through, like, ten years of eating disorders, the result of which is a fucked up pulse among other things, but the heart seizing up is not a side effect, it's a cause of death. Its not good. At all.

So my first course of thought involved panic. Oh my God, I was dying. I had to sell everything I owned and tell everyone I loved them, that I didn't mean to kick it so soon, and could they please take good care of Maxie and Murphy in my absence from this plane of existence. My second course of thought involved dramatically worded letters of goodbye to everyone I cared for, and many I didn't give a shit about. My third course of thought involved kicking myself--as it usually does--for being eating disordered for so long. After that I had a good, old fashioned pity party at which I was the only attendee and coleslaw was served. No one loves me anyway, its better off that I just slip from existence soundlessly, leaving no trace but this foul sack of carbon beneath me. Goodbye cruel world.

A few minutes into the pity party, slumped in my office chair concocting sentiments to apologize to the lady next door for stealing a few dryer sheets when I was out, I began noting the events of the morning. Let's see, I woke up at 5am to take my thyroid drugs, the purpose of taking them in the morning being that they are pretty much pure speed, and someone with no metabolism needs speed. The alarm went off, and I went to the kitchen, God knows how, poured a glass of...something...and then took three pills (they take a few hours to kick in). After that, I went back to bed.

I was dreaming about Jessica Biel, I remember that, could never forget that, when at seven-thirty or so Murphy was on top of me licking my face and pretending she wasn't trying to wake me up for kibble. I remember being upset it wasn't Jessica Biel. I then stumbled to the kitchen again, but this time only to pour out some food for the little ones, and...AHHHH...

I TOOK THREE MORE PILLS!

Yep. 600 micrograms of Synthroid will make your heart stop. Silly silly Bunny.

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Posted by: 4erinbsaved at August 24, 2006 05:04 PM

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