gene wilder, the producers, anxiety one upmanship, anxious

I’m more anxious than you

You: I have terrible insomnia.

Me: I have terrible insomnia and jet lag from my holiday.

You: I can’t afford to go on holiday. I am too poor.

Me: If it’s any consolation, I picked up a cough while I was away that I can’t shake off.

You: I have a cough from giving up smoking. Because I can’t afford cigarettes anymore.

Me: At least your cough makes sense. My cough might be tuberculosis.

You: And mine might be cancer. You can’t rule anything out these days.

Me: At least you have a room for someone to stay in while they nurse you. I live in a one bedroom flat.

You: At least you own it. When I’m forced to stop working through illness, I’ll have to move out. Probably under the Westway.

Me: If only I could live in West London. You’re so lucky.

You: There’s nothing lucky about someone whose dishwasher flooded last night.

Me: I have mice.

You: I think I have a rat.

Me: I have foxes in my garden that have violent sex that sounds like a woman being killed.

You: A fox came into my bedroom and stole my favourite high heels.

Me: I can’t wear high heels because of my bad back.

You: At least you have an excuse to take Valium.

Me: Taking medication for my bad back has made my stomach so sensitive.

You: My stomach is sensitive because of anxiety.

Me: At least no one can see that. My anxiety always comes out through my skin.

You: If anxiety is causing your bad skin, that means you can do something about it. My bad skin is a mystery.

Me: I would kill to have more mystery in my life. Everything is so terrifyingly predictable.

You: Predictability is my dream. That’s stability.

Me: Stability is the end of growth.

You: I don’t want to grow anymore, I already look five years older than I am.

Me: I look ten years older.

You: I’ll probably die soon.

Me: I’ll probably die alone.

You: Shall we get another bottle?

Me: Why not? And then we can Google songs from the nineties to play at our funerals.

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