Guess who’s feeling lots better?
Come on. Guess.
No, not Mariah Carey.
No, not Anne Heche either.
Oh, now who said Margot Kidder? Seriously. Quelle 1996! Cripes.
Ok. Me. It’s me. I feel lots better now. Death rattle is almost gone! Yay! Go me!
(Weetabix does her happy ‘I’m so healthy I feel like dancing like a curvy round dance goddess’ routine, which looks a little dorky but she doesn’t care)
Still sound a bit like a cat with a hairball sometimes but such is life. I coughed up half a lung this morning and Tilly gave me this look that was like ‘Holy crap! I expected a wad the size of Texas to come out of you after that shiznit! Now I’ve got to go beat up Chelsea.’ Because she pretty much just looks for any excuse to beat up on Chelsea.
So yesterday, I piked out of work after a third person came and told me to go home and another person came from over in the next cubicle farm and said that when she heard me coughing, it made her own chest hurt. By that time, it was well into late afternoon, so I didn’t feel too guilty about it. I also decided to take Friday off as a vacation day, figuring that if I was sick, then I wouldn’t feel guilty about calling in sick yet AGAIN and if I was feeling better, I would be feeling really lots better because I wasn’t at work. I know’ the reasoning is a bit sketchy but it worked for me.
And I think it’s all thanks to this new drug that the doctor gave me. I couldn’t get into Dr. Perky because she’s just so darned popular that you pretty much have to be bleeding or at loss of limb to make contact with that woman. Or need to have your kitty looked at. Because she’ll apparently jump at a chance for that crap.
(insert specula-induced eye roll here)
Instead, I went to a different clinic and saw a pseudo-doctor. I think she’s called a nurse practitioner. Maybe she’s just someone who thinks that they look good in huggy bear scrubs. I dunno. She set me up on another prednisone/antibiotic cocktail and then I panned so subtely for some more codeine cough syrup (Yes! I know I have an unreasonable affinity to codeine! Don’t go all After School Special on me, ok?) but I couldn’t really remember the name of the actual syrup and it wasn’t written down in my chart. I estimated that I had a day and a half left of the codeine. She puzzled for a bit and then said ‘Well, how about this. I’m not sure what stuff you were on, but I’m going to give you what I like to take, which is a vicodin-based product.’ I grimaced, because when I broke my knee a few years back, Vicodin, while it is the drug of choice for NFL MVPs and cast members of popular NBC sitcoms, it didn’t really do anything for me. Let me rephrase that’ it just made stuff stop hurting, it didn’t give me happy drooling warm dream filled comas that codeine does. I shrugged because I didn’t want to be marked forever as the codeine whore that I am, but mentally thought to myself about how I could ration out my remaining codeine cough syrup until I improved. Or call Dr. Perky, who understands that my weak little lungs ‘respond better’ to the magnificent codeine.
I went home and tried some of the new vicodin stuff. One thing that I noticed right away: the bottle was WAY smaller. Upon reading the instructions, you only need 1 teaspoon every twelve hours, as opposed to codeine’s 2 teaspoons every four hours. Naturally, that was all just a suggestion, as I usually slugged directly from that bottle like a $3 wino on a street corner.
So I tasted the new stuff. Oooooh. My eyebrows did a little surprise perk.
As God as my witness, it tastes exactly like donut glaze.
And then I went to sleep for twelve and a half hours.
RAWK!!!!!
(Disclaimer: We here at Dumber Than A Box of Rocks do not condone the use of pharmaceuticals for reasons other than what are prescribed by a licensed physician. Any implied overdosing of controlled substances are literary license only. And we certainly do not condone individuals who enjoy said prescribed medicines for the reason that it gives them wonderful dreams where they are swimming in Starbucks Mochas while a certain linebacker-esque khaki-wearing barrista asks if she’d like a little more foam or if she’d like to nibble upon a comp cinnamon scone. We’re just saying.)
Anyway, I like me the donut glazey golden sleep syrup. Seriously. It’s magically delicious. I have a feeling that when it’s gone, I’ll be sucking the bottle out with a straw.
Yep. Reserve a room for me in the Betty Ford clinic. I’m thinking in the ‘NyQuil’ wing. It will be me and the Olson twins, after ‘lights out’ singing into our hairbrushes, pretending that we’re Britney Spears for Kitty Dukakis and Winona Ryder. I’m so going to trounce their asses, too. Little talentless beeyatches.
