I am a walking, talking pre-existing condition.
I have anxiety. I have a bulging disc in my back that has numbed two toes forever and periodically sends me to bed for a week at a time. I have a family history of breast cancer. I have TID, or Trump-Induced Dysthymia, a less severe but more persistent form of depression brought on by a President who hates all brown people and can’t form a cohesive sentence.*
I also have a new disorder every week, garnered by perusing WebMD, or, as I call it, Pinterest for Hypochondriacs. I’m not alone in this—so many people share this hobby that doctors have coined a new term for us: Cyberchondriacs. So I have that now, too.
What I’m saying is, when Republicans are done shoving their new healthcare bill down the throats of Democrats with a giant, splinter-y tongue depressor, I will be putting on my old lady swimsuit and wading into the high-risk pool. (C’mon in! The water’s… way more expensive than Evian.)