Just a flesh wound
Have you heard the saying “Higher education is something that comes from within, just appears out of subspace, and enlightens your life”? No? Me neither. But regardless I have to inform you that my self-talk named George is an unparalleled health professional.
No matter the symptom, from skull-splitting headache to a tingle in a cold breeze, he knows exactly that you're sick. (You read correctly: not if you're sick but that you are.)
Dr George knows the alarm sign for danger and I start to believe it's “being alive”. That alone is a steep slope into medical disaster. He is at the same time (!) deeply worried about your uncertain medical future and absolutely certain about your worrisome medical future. You are doomed if you don't act immediately while there's simply nothing you can possibly do. How educated.
And most importantly: Don't try to look up your symptoms online! Dr. George wants to inform you: the search results are wrong. The search results are wrong and too positive. It's way worse than that.
Also, Dr. George has an adamant opinion about hypochondria: it is something you make up. As in “There is no such thing as hypochondria. You truly are sick, believe me.”
Dr. George is always right and if it ever turns our he was wrong, then of course he was right and right to have told you what he had told you. It turned out well after all, didn't it? Well thank you, Dr. George.
How bad is it then? Is it just a flesh wound or even a scratch? Will my life end if I go on living it? And since I am absolutely, totally, irredeemable powerless anyway, what about this prescription of a daily dose of worries? Are you only giving me this to stay in business?
George, you aren't simply prescribing worries, you are a worry-dealer. And a very slick and addictive one at that. Pondering the futility of all my efforts, the powerlessness you attest... I decide to stop the daily dose of worries. It's not without a rather poetic beauty: if you truly have no influence at all, you can do whatever you want.
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