Thou shalt not google.

I was originally planning to write a list of "Ten Commandments For When You Are A Broken Typewriter," but they all boiled down to the above: THOU SHALT NOT GOOGLE. Google can only hurt you in these instances. And as the daughter of a hypochondriac and a medical-procedure addict, I've always tried to keep self-diagnosis to a minimum. I like to roll in to a doctor's office, list off my symptoms, and let them tell me what it is.*

Unfortunately, my situation of the last few months has made me opt to throw my normal rules, for the most part, out the window. Googling will only do two things:

1. It will keep hope alive.
2. It will terrify you even more.

What is below is an abbreviated stream-of-consciousness googlefest.

1. I googled my symptoms via WebMD (and this was suggested by my enabler husband. I was pregnant! Hope lives! Then, negative blood test results come in. Hope dies.

2. I googled PCOS. Symptoms list: Cystic ovaries, obesity, marked hairiness. Now, I defy anyone to find a woman who doesn't think she's fatter than she should be and also hairier than she should be, but this is not helpful. I pictured myself in three years as a cross between a Wookie and Jabba the Hut. I am too vain for this, and begin researching electrolysis and lipo. Also, since these are really areas along a spectrum, isn't it possible I'm already hairy and growing stout? I mean, if I was hairy I wouldn't tell anyone about it. Except my husband, from whom I have extracted a promise to have someone come in and tweeze me every week if I'm ever incapacitated.

3. I googled thyroid problems. I'll never be the lucky bitch with a thyroid problem who continually loses weight,** I'll only be the fat one with ADD and tingly hands. Fortunately, I won't be hairy.

4. Cannot look at the dark side of the coin anymore. Begin googling "pregnancy" and "negative blood tests." Find a chat room in which somebody has posted that they had negative blood tests and now have a kid. Hope has a faint pulse.

5. Discover other nasty things to read about on google, like "miscarriage" and "ectopic pregnancy." Alternate between sad and scared. I mean, Christina Yang from Grey's Anatomy almost DIED from an ectopic pregnancy.

6. Repeat 1-5. A couple of times. And by "couple of times" I mean "couple hundred times."

7. Discover am definitely not pregnant. Fall into funk. Wonder if I'll be lovable once I only speak in honks and have a chick in a bikini chained to me. Although why I'd want to look at some skinny bitch is beyond me.

8. Receive email from friend who points out that you only get fat and hairy if you are already fat and hairy, leading me to think that it's less a symptom and more a cause. Consider writing letter to WebMD and every other medical site protesting. Realize it's not only futile, but that I really only did it to myself.

*Hilarious side story: Once, in the throes of agony due to sinus infection over the hoildays, I went to the emergency room. I told the doctor that I was feeling pain and pressure in my upper jaw and that it was pain similar to the last time I had a sinus infection. He looked at me and asked, "What do you want me to do?" I want you to make the pain stop and the infection go away, Buddy. What, you thought I came here to tell you that and now I'm ready to leave?

**I'm not minimizing thyroid problems here, folks. I'm only relating my complete and total shallow reactions that are totally looks-based. Because that's how I roll.