Over the past three years, one of my friends has suffered from a series of mysterious ailments with no obvious symptoms.
It all started when he became convinced that he’d been poisoned by his ex-wife. The alleged poisoning somehow mutated into glandular fever, which in turn gave way to meningitis (actually, that one was almost believable, because there definitely seems to be something wrong with his brain). I kind of lost track after his bout of imaginary meningitis, but in his most recent health crisis, he was certain that he had cancer. Or tuberculosis. Possibly both.
If I sound unsympathetic, it’s probably because I am. I didn’t start off this way, but his maladies have all, without exception, turned out to be the medical equivalent of swamp gas or the planet Venus.
I believe he has a rare condition called fullofshititus, which causes an overwhelming desire to have endless blood tests done, “just to be sure”. He’s managed to combine hypochondria and self-mutilation into a strangely logical, but nonetheless insane package.
The local emo kids think he is a god.