In my bag there is a box. There are many boxes and lots of pill strips. That’s all I carry around now. Pills and glasses. And exactly how old am I? 34 going on 90. Anyway, there’s this particular box, and particular pill strip, that’s named The Emergency Stop Pill. It’s got some fancy unpronounceable name, but Emergency Stop is what my Doctor called it. ES for short.
That’s what I’ll be marching back and telling her when I’m demanding my head scan, I’ve decided.
I’ll give it its dues, ES did give me my balance back today.
It made the headache worse, though.
And then there comes that stage when you’re all pilled up with nothing left to do but cry, so you do. Often.
Pop a pill.
Grab a tissue.
(I’m getting so good at it I can do it in a movement.)
I think I must’ve cried today more times than I ever cried throughout the ’90s. (I was a rather aloof kid. Sweet but, whatevs.) And I actually quite liked my 1432 rendition of Cry Me A River for the drip-drop of tears on my cheek. I hadn’t felt that in years. Brought back memories. It made me think of happier times when I didn’t have a fucking headache!
Honestly, what has my life come to?
Sitting here trying to bargain maybe a knee ache in lieu of a headache from Client Support when no prick is listening. Got to take it and leave it, they say. Got to get on with this shit. Well, I don’t want to. I demand to speak to the manager!
For fucks sake. I’d get more out of a brick wall.