I Worry About the Mind-Body Problem

I’ve noticed lately that a lot of people are worried.

People are worried about the economy, for example.

Others are worried about Iran’s 1400 pounds of enriched uranium.

Many people seem very worried about a handful of Ebola virus infections in Filipino pigs.

I’m worried that I’ve fallen in love with my chiropractor.

I’m worried because today while I and Kevin or, as I like to call him, Dr. Kevin, were talking about how much I need him to really start helping me improve my posture, I also wanted to grab him and kiss him.

Not just any kiss.

Not an innocent thank-you-for-relieving-my-acute-lower-back-pain-and-incipient-sciatica kiss.

But the kind where I put my arms around Dr. Kevin.

And pull Dr. Kevin toward me and stand there for a few minutes with his broad hairy chest pressed against mine, groin to groin, my lips barely brushing his, and with me just basically taking my time appreciating the way he smells before I begin sucking very, very softly on his lower lip, savoring it with all of my nerves and brain cells and every ounce of my entire being, as he groans and slides his tongue into my mouth and twitches his long, thick and, by this point, as hard and heavy as a pig-iron ingot, incredibly wet Sicilian dick that I can feel burning and throbbing against my hip through the flimsy pale blue surgical scrubs that he wears that do a very fantastic job of accentuating his meaty rock-hard and lushly hairy ass.

I’m worried because this urge overcame me in Dr. Kevin’s waiting room which happened to be filled with all of his other regular patients:

Needy, blowzy, attention-seeking menopausal Dominican and Puerto Rican women who are shameless in their idiotic malingering.

I cannot believe my senses when I sit there in shock with my mouth hanging open and watch in horror as these sneaky women moan and weep and screech and twitch in a laughably unrealistic mimicry of back spasm and “whiplash” so that they’ll maybe get a few extra seconds of Dr. Kevin’s excellent hands-on care.

My gut tells me that these women are rabid homophobes, too.

At the slightest provocation, such as if I were to nurse on Dr. Kevin’s tongue while pinching his erect gumdrop-size nipples until he howls like a powerful wild animal and has a spontaneous orgasm and ejaculates like a shotgun or bunker-buster missile into his surgical scrubs, these women would not be able to control their anti-gay bigotry.

They would paw through their ridiculous Chinatown knock-off giraffe-print purses, looking for their tawdry “ghetto fabulous” cell phones in order to call their recidivist sons and boyfriends — who were probably just released from Rikers where they’d done many years in solitary for the sex-torture slaying of a lot of 90-year old disabled Korean widows — and beg these sociopaths to hunt me down and beat me to death with (stolen) crowbars because I am gay.

I don’t worry about this because I have a morbid fear of death.

Nor do I have any weird phobia about becoming an international martyr or poster child for tolerance and human rights.

I worry about this because it could cause Dr. Kevin to be a victim of gossip and bad publicity.

I worry that my spectacular hate-crime murder would have a negative impact on his practice, even though he offers a very competitive rate for initial consultation plus x-rays.

I’m thinking that the FBI and New York State Prosecutor would probably start bugging Dr. Kevin’s waiting room with high-tech listening devices and packing it with poorly disguised undercover agents and then you could pretty much give a big kiss good-bye to all the Dominican and Puerto Rican harridans who have an eerie and highly developed sixth-sense for detecting law-enforcement personnel and who usually pay Dr. Kevin in cash because they are such huge risks finance-wise that no bank will give them even a checking account.

I worry about this because people say that famous scientists have done many studies that prove that worrying makes the human body release unnecessary stress hormones that cause health problems such as acute lower back pain and incipient sciatica.

So, me worrying about my urge to kiss Dr. Kevin and the many potentially dangerous consequences of this urge is only making my symptoms worse by the minute.

But in addition I know that my tendency to worry disappears when Dr. Kevin says, “Be quiet!” for the fourth or fifth time and “Would you do me a huge favor and settle down and take a few slow deep breaths and relax in complete silence?” as he cups my skull in his fragrant palms and palpates the vertebrae in my neck before abruptly grasping my ears and wrenching my head from side to side.

My worry thing disappears because Dr. Kevin’s hands smell of the classy duty-free cologne he probably bought when he went last summer to Palermo.

To sunny, humid, Palermo to visit his very hairy, very muscular, deeply tanned and very sweaty cousins who I’m pretty sure have insatiable and high sex-drives and equally low inhibitions when it comes to the “incest taboo” with regard to handsome men with tremendous sexual charisma and impressive biceps and calve muscles the size of the exotic Asian citrus fruit called the “pomelo” and who aren’t first-degree relatives.

When I’m smelling this very classy duty-free cologne that Dr. Kevin inevitably massaged into the pungent, slippery armpits of his virile cousins because he is a generous guy who loves to share simple pleasures such as very classy cologne with men who aren’t afraid to be passionate and just let themselves go and wander off to wherever it is that their pent-up ravenous desires will lead them, I start to worry.

What is happening is that when Dr. Kevin contorts the vertebrae in my neck so that they make a crunching noise like when you stomp with your bare feet on stale deep-discount biscotti, I’m sitting in a chair that puts my face directly at the level of his adorable male reproductive organs.

This alone causes a whole host of uncomfortable problems for me personally that have a lot to do with issues like unnecessary stress hormones which famous scientists say are triggered by worrying.

Which is just one more thing for me to worry about.