I can’t find my fucking car.

Parking garages are the bane of my existence. I’m caught in the middle of the world’s least entertaining episode of ‘Seinfeld.’

Third floor? Nope.

Fourth? No.

Altruism, engage!

Did I actually park on the roof? Nah.

Did I miss it below? AHHH.

I can’t focus. I’ve just been given some shitty news. The “bump” on my head isn’t a cyst like we originally thought.

It’s a tumor.

Doc says it’s probably benign, but a CT scan will determine whether or not it originates in my sinus, brain or the skull itself.

Oh, here’s my car. First floor. Nice going, dumbass.

Punching the steering wheel never helps, but it does look cool. Ouch. Good thing I’m at the hospital.

I’ve been having panic attacks for as long as I can remember. As a kid, I slept on the floor in my parent’s bedroom. I thought every sound I heard from downstairs was an intruder.

In college, there were nights where I didn’t want to leave my apartment because I was afraid that I would pass out at some party. (I’ve never passed out in my life.)

How It Works!

How Do-Goodery Works

Now? I’m married with a dog, two cats, and a mortgage. Even as someone who has always been acutely aware of his mortality, I’m more cognizant about it than ever before.

Today’s visit to the doctor was to give me peace of mind. I wanted him to tell me: “Everything is going to be okay.”

Now, I won’t have the answers I need until next week’s CT scan.

I can’t escape … and I can’t find my way out of this damn garage.

Number of panic attacks I had today: One
Number of times I was told I have a tumor: One
Number of panic attacks that I’ll excuse due to extenuating circumstances: One

Today’s topic ‘A’ on the Adam Crowley Show: Antonio Brown called Ben Roethlisberger an “interception lizard.” Steelers vs. Chiefs on Sunday. This Mahomes guy looks like he could be pretty good.