What's sad is I can't actually see from my head to my lap, so for all I know I'm typing "puppies are assholes" right now. "Grandmas suck."
So, last night Ned saved my life, which was considerate of him. For the last year or so, my throat feels close-uppy, and I keep thinking it's just anxiety because have you met me? But I also feel like it's kind of hard to swallow. Every once in awhile a drink will go down the wrong way. Which is what happened last night.
I don't even know if I was officially choking choking, because I could still make a noise, but it was only breathing out, sort of, that I could do. We were at a restaurant and Ned jumped up and pulled me out of the chair and Heimliched me. I've never been Heimliched, and lemme tell ya, that shit works.
Ned was traumatized after and said it was the scariest moment of his life. I wonder if I'll get jewelry out of this?
Anyway, I'm calling the doctor, because I'm telling you my throat is swollen or something, and I know this is The End and you will never hear from me again. "You don't have esophageal cancer," said Ned, when I Googled my symptoms. "You've never smoked a day in your life.
Technically, I did smoke a pack of Virginia Slims, one a day, when I walked home from 9th grade for a few rebellious weeks. I'd wait till cool kids were walking by and I'd very pointedly hold my not-at-all-beginner-looking-Virginia-Slim out and smoke it when they were near enough to see me. You can imagine how this shot me into the upper eschelon of the popular crowd.
Anyway, given how much my grandparents smoked around me, I had a pack-a-day habit by age 4. So now I have to pay the piper for all those good times and die of some throat disease.
Either that or I'm just being crazy.