[Update: The cyst naming contest is over. Colin won. He said we should call my cyst “Maya” after my “cyst”er (that’s a pun for “sister,” and, since “Maya” is my sister’s name, it makes sense or something). Per the contest award, Colin isn’t supposed to receive a headbutt, but because I hate puns so much, I’m going to give him a little headbutt anyway. But, yeah. That’s that. My cyst’s name is “Maya.” Congrats, Colin. Now it’s headbuttin’ time.]

Hey, guess what.

No, seriously.

Guess.

If you’re having a hard time figuring it out, then look at the title of the post and think really hard and then guess again.

Figured it out yet?

Yeah. That’s right. It’s been months, but it’s time for another Rory Medical Update, and this time, instead of it being about my inner brain meat, it’s all about my new cyst.

Yeah. I’ve got a cyst. And it’s in my throat. Right by my vocal chords, and it’s screwing things up.

I’m so excited. It’s like, one day I could sing and talk, and then, the next day, I could barely talk, and couldn’t sing at all. Why?

Because of the cyst, dummy. That’s what I’ve been talking about.

And, by “I’m so excited,” I mean that my life totally sucks because I can’t sing Erasure in my car anymore. And, if I can’t sing Erasure in my car anymore, then I can’t dance while I drive. And if I can’t dance while I drive, then I’m going to get sad. And if I get sad, then I’m going to get depressed.

See where this is going?

Yeah. It’s that time of year again - time for the Great Rory Nervous Breakdown. We should make it a quarterly celebration, and I should invite you all over to my one-square-foot apartment for a party where I’d serve snacks and drinks, and we could all talk about my latest nervous breakdown (which is headin’ up the Rory highway like a f***ing freight train powered by the Millennium Falcon’s hyperdrive engine).

I’d serve calming snacks. Like turkey. Because turkey contains tryptophan, and tryptophan is a precursor to serotonin, and serotonin has a calming effect on people. It’s why your uncle always falls asleep right after Thanksgiving dinner, and you’re all like, “Let’s play ‘ride the horsey’,” and he’s all unconscious and doesn’t even care.

It’s not because of the copious amounts of beer. It’s the tryptophan in the turkey. That’s why your uncle neglects you.

And, also at my party, I’d have other calming snacks, like heroin. Only it wouldn’t be in needles because that’s just gauche. I’d put it in little sandwiches with the crusts cut off, and you people would eat them, and then you’d all be relaxed, and then you’d all fall asleep like Samuel Taylor Coleridge did after he drank his opium tincture (“laudanum” being the proper name of the substance), and then you’d all have dreams of poetry like Coleridge, but the only difference is that you wouldn’t be able to remember your poems, and even if you could, they’d suck, and then you wouldn’t get famous like him, but that’s not a big deal since he’s not exactly reaping the rewards of fame right now if you know what I’m talkin’ about (i.e. HE’S DEAD).

Sounds like fun, eh? A party where everybody falls asleep after eating heroin sandwiches? The other nice thing is there wouldn’t be a huge line at the bathroom because opiates are constipating, so we could all just chill without having to “freshen up” every five minutes.

Yeah. It’d be a calming party. And we’d all give me a backrub (and by “we” I mean “you”).

The coolest thing about this new cyst thing, though, is that some doctor put me on steroids for it, and he was all, “These are going to make you aggressive, euphoric, and then grow boobs.” And I was like all, “SWEET,” ‘cause I’ve always wanted boobs just so that I could, you know, like, have my own and see what it’s like.

But it turns out that the dose I’m on is so short that I won’t even have time to grow boobs – I’m just getting the aggression/euphoria thing. If I want boobs, then I have to go to Beverly Hills and get a special operation, which I hope my Microsoft medical insurance will cover.

But the aggression thing is weird. I think this is probably what it’s like to take PCP. I feel like I should be putting my head through windows whenever something goes wrong.

Like today at the restaurant when I was all, “I’ll have a Coke with no ice, please,” and then my Coke had ice in it. I almost headbutted the waitress. The only thing stopping me was that one of the side-effects of the steroids is that they make me thirsty, and I had to get right to sipping.

Seriously, though, man, you don’t want to get in my way this week. The steroids are just making me a MONSTER. I’m, like, so pumped up now, too. I mean, I was already buff, but now when I flex outside, I accidentally knock over buses and buildings and stuff and have to have a police escort everywhere I go. That’s how powerful these steroids have made me. People say, “Hey, are those new mountains in Portland?” and then someone else says, “No, IT’S JUST RORY’S STEROID PUMPED-UP BICEPS HERE TO DO SOME DAMAGE. YEAH.”

And the best part? My voice hasn’t gotten any better.

The point here, though, is that I think we should all name my cyst. The party thing sounds cool and all, but we should have a cyst-naming contest, and the winner of the contest won’t get headbutted by me. That’ll be your prize.

Anyway, I have to go. My neighbors are playing their music all loud again, and I’m going to knock the door of their apartment down with my pinkie and then smash their stereo system into my forehead, blowing it into a thousand little pieces, and then I’m going to chew the pieces into little sharper pieces and then spit them out so hard and fast at my neighbors that they’ll be WEARING their stereo system, and then maybe we won’t be plagued by having to listen to Cher at 11:00 PM on a work night anymore.

Hey – after reading this, I bet my boss is really happy about the fact that I’ll be presenting in Redmond next week in front of all the VP’s and execs who tend to show up at the Redmond MSDN Events.

It’s going to be awesome. I’m going to change all the usual “Welcome to this MSDN Event” signs to “WELCOME TO THE CITY OF YOU JUST GOT HEADBUTTED – POPULATION: YOU” signs.

Anyway, peace out y’alls. I have some things to headbutt.