I went to Ikea today with my girlfriend. Her penchant for overwrought particle board crap had to be sated before we moved into the new abode. The labrythian quest for furniture that we've so happily imported from Europe has a nasty effect on one's energy levels, and hence, in an ingenious plot to keep you buying, the countrymen of Alfred Nobel have installed eateries in their furniture outlets (and conveniently, we popped in to keep the modern design boner going). As it turns out, the mashed potatoes accompanying my ground Chinese fetus "Swedish" meatballs were quite hot. Seeing as how I ride the very fine edge of danger in life at all times (see: visiting Ikea), I proceeded to shovel them into my welcoming cakehole with little regard for the wellbeing of my central nervous system. Entering my digestive tract, the lava-hot rehydrated potato flakes skipped most of my tongue, battered my uvula, and subsequently became lodged in the muscular bottleneck that is the human esophagus. As my body began to force the mass of searing watery starch into my waiting gullet, a strange feeling came over me. First, the inescapable sensation that my chest was on fire. I felt this was normal, given the intake temperature of my root vegetable-derived "food". And next, the sudden loss of bloodflow to my cranial region, like I'd just rocketed skyward in a Saturn V. In short, instant darkness for yours truly. I awoke, rather disoriented and confused, for the veritable human tankards perusing the pinnacle of Scandinavian accomplishment had found me something of a spectacle. Aneurysms amongst the young and healthy are a rarity in public, this was certainly a chance to make the evening news, or at least a line in the next day's police blotter! Much to their chagrin, I got up. Tongue bleeding, head bruised, and sheepish, I wiped up the mess I'd made with my beverage on my short trip to the floor. Needless to say, my girlfriend was perturbed. Her insistence that I'm now on death's door/must see a medical professional post-haste is irritating, and I'm contemplating returning to Ikea to purchase a locking wardrobe to contain her. My reasoning, that everyone gets lightheaded when eating very hot, thick food (soup, mashed potatoes, semen, etc), didn't fly (because psych majors are definitely qualified to answer such mysteries of human anatomy). Hence, I page the services of Toshi, because god fvcking knows I'm not going to a doctor in the flesh unless I start twitching, my tongue swells up, and I sh!t my pants. If it helps, my resting heartrate is low - 45ish, and I raced 75 miles yesterday. My gratitude for what I'm sure is your (or anyone else's, as long as you're not a psych major) professional diagnosis.