she's an easy liver/(she'll get a hold on you, believe it)

1) I'm getting more liver tests. The people in the liver clinic are very thorough. They had no problem walking me through every possible scenario of what could be wrong with me, right up to the part where I get cirrhosis and need a transplant. But, they assured me, not in a scary way.*

2) I'm in love! Is something wrong with me? Is this going to show up on my next (seemingly weekly) MRI with arm-bursting contrast? I am in love with this man. He is dancing. He is singing Sisqo. Crohns, don't take your temperature now; it's so wrong, it has to be right.



*Note: On the sidelines of all this, in what I am trying to consider a completely non-creepy coincidence, I am sending out a story I first drafted three years ago, title "Transplant," which culminates in exactly what you would imagine. I would say this is life imitating art, but here I think we're going to have to settle with lifelike possibilities imitating another dubious story. "Art" it can hardly be called, as scores of people who have been subjected to it at readings can assure you. (At my reading in October, I looked up just in time to see one confused listener mouth to another, "WHAT?") I'm just wishing I hadn't done all that completely lifelike research where I learned about exactly what happens at every moment. In case you're wondering, it's gross. Incidentally, I think the next story I write is definitely going to feature someone winning the lottery, curing cancer, and then being energetically but sincerely seduced by the man in the above dance sequence. I mean, just in case I actually wield any power here. Maybe I'll also add a little epilogue where everyone who doesn't have eyebrows gets them! Because short stories can absolutely have epilogues all of a sudden.