Eight-Legged Freak

Hypochondriacs should not be allowed access to Google. This is a fact I've known for years. It gets reiterated to me time and time again, when I notice a potential symptom, hit up WebMD and the like, and convince myself it's fatal.

We just moved into a house that's been vacant for some time, and we've spotted several bugs, ranging from cockroaches to (gulp) spiders. I have a few bites on my calf that are redder, more swollen and more tender than your run-of-the-mill bugbite. I also have no one to restrict my access to the internet. This all adds up to me convincing myself that a brown recluse (common to Georgia, unfortunately) has feasted on my flesh and I'm sure to develop a case of necrotizing fasciitis that only Dr. Gregory House can diagnose. If I'm not long for this world, it's been real.

If my prognosis isn't quite so dire but I have been bitten by a spider, it sure as hell better have been radioactive. I'm not letting my right leg be some arachnid's late night snack without getting some superpowers out of the deal.