Call me a hypochondriac, but there’s something’s wrong with me. Loathe as I am to visit the narrow antiseptic halls of a clinic, I prefer pop self-diagnosis to being prodded, squeezed or violated by medical instruments. What I’ve got I discovered not in any medical journal or thousand-page textbook but rather in Webster’s Third New International Dictionary, that incomparable source for elusive words. I suffer, according to Mr. Webster, from an acute case of dromomania, defined as such as “an exaggerated desire to wander.” I’ve had it bad for fifteen years. No cure was listed for this affliction, no help offered by the lexicon. Instead, being in character with the pop diagnostician that I am, I’ve prescribed my own folk remedy: give in to the wanderlust. The best way to administer the right dosage
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