Appendicitis (n.): inflammation of the appendix.

It’s just not damn fair.

Even though I realize that knowledge is a good thing, a little knowledge sucks.

I know I have an appendix, and I have learned enough to realize that it doesn’t do anything for me whatsoever except threaten to become inflamed, requiring my body to be sliced for removal. On top of that, this little booger has such ambiguous symptoms that every time I have a slight twinge in my belly, I’m curious if it is pleading deep within me to exit from its extinct purposes.

Yes, the appendix turns us all into hypochondriacs–because we know it has absolutely no value to us and its only purpose in life seems to be to get sick and die. (The only other part of creation that emulates it are old people playing shuffle board in St. Petersburg, Florida.)

I try to resist being whacked out by it. If I get one of those tummy aches, I think to myself, more likely spicy meatballs than the appendix.

But I am still aware of the danger lying deep within my flesh, threatening a gashing exit.

Maybe we would all be better off if it was just removed. Matter of fact, if somebody came up with a way to shoot a laser through the skin to dissolve it, I might line up for the treatment.

Of course, adding to the paranoia is the realization that because we have limited knowledge, they will find out in five generations that the appendix was actually the key to solid physical well-being. And those future scholars will marvel at the ignorance which existed in our time, which not only failed to discover the intrinsic value of this little organ, but actually removed it–shortening the life of the patient by twenty years.

I tell you–it’s a frustrating mess.

Thinking that it’s worthless but dangerous…or wondering if it’s dangerous because we stupidly think it’s worthless.

Thank you for enjoying Words from Dic(tionary) —  J.R. Practix