Throwing Poo

My face is shrinking.  Seriously.  I’m not joking around. My face.  My charming, boyish façade.  My suspicious-mother neutralizer and lifelong host to my pie & pancake hole.  My.  Fucking.  Face.  Is.  Shrinking.

For some unknown reason – unknown not only to me but my orthodontist (the new braces being my first suspicion), family doctor, ENT (ears, nose and throat) specialist, and CT scan technician so far – my temples, cheeks and eyes are sucking into my skull.  It is as if Linda Lovelace got left behind in my cranium by the Fantastic Voyage crew and fell into old habit. 

The weird thing is that I’m not losing weight anywhere else on my body.  From the neck up I’m beginning to look like an albino Ethiopian with a fancy grill, but from the shoulders down it is blubbery business as usual. 

And it is driving me insane.

Over the past three weeks I have wasted a colossal amount of time and energy trying to figure out what the hell is going on.  Google and Lexis-Nexis (go, Nerdy!) searches have turned up nothing.  I poured over every option, from a brain tumor to a jilted ex-girlfriend with a newfound interest in voodoo, and have come up empty.  Did I accidentally peek when the Ark of the Covenant was opened?  Did I choose poorly and drink from the wrong chalice?  Did the horribly-disappointing new Indiana Jones movie destroy my brain’s will to live?  (Seriously, Mr. Spielberg, giant CGI ants and a CGI-enhanced swordfight with a gratuitous procession of nut shots?  You own me $8.)  I simply can’t figure it out.

I’ve got an appointment with a neurologist in a few weeks.  In the mean time I’ll try to post some photos so you can have fun diagnosing my likely life-threatening affliction. 

Oh, and I’m also going to Corolla next week to pickle my liver, provoke looming melanoma and pack my belly.  If my body thinks it can kill me before I do, then it has one final lesson to learn.