So, I spent most of my afternoon today completely convinced that my bedroom was the site of a bedbug infestation. I made and stripped the bed several times, searching for signs of bugs, and, despite seeing none, researched area exterminators, and placed a panicked call to my ever-indulgent roommate, who was out and missed most of the melee, and actually happens to be an expert on bedbugs, having dealt with them in the past. Please note that there is no reason for me to think I have bedbugs. When you have bedbugs, there are pretty obvious signs, including:
1) Gross, itchy, horrible bug bites all over your body;
2) Bugs and bug crap in your bed.
I do not have any bugbites. I do not have any bugs or bug crap. Rather, I became convinced that I had bedbugs basically because bedbugs exist. This is not unlike the “clearly it is syphillis because syphillis exists” incident of several weeks ago. Or, you know, the countless “clearly I am pregnant because pregnancy exists” incidents that I bravely faced as an 18-year-old virgin.
While I have learned to laugh (drunkenly) at the memory of my virginal naivety, the fact remains that I have a problem. I would not call it hypochodria, because it’s not that. It’s more like an inclination towards leaping at worst-case-scenarios and just assuming they are true. Good Sir Roommate was like “it’s like pessimism…but really extreme.” So I guess that’s it. Extreme Pessimism. I might actually amend that to be Extreme Paranoid Pessimism. Also, fuck you, internet, for enabling my Extreme Paranoid Pessimism. Fuck you and your little wikipedia, too.
Oooh, Oooh! I am also a bedbug expert, having dealt with the never ending bedbug infestation at Crack Towers.
Move your bed a few inches away from any walls and slather vaseline on the bottom of your bedposts. That’ll keep the little suckers from getting in your bed in the first place.
Or, see a therapist.