You know when the Urgent Care doctor looks concerned after he’s examined you that you’re pretty much fucked. You know that you’re really fucked when he actively prescribes you narcotics and steroids that you’re really fucked. Sadly, I was able to procure no fentanyl lollies, but still, I have a big ass bottle of Vicodin with my name on it.
Rather than loll about the house in a narcotics filled haze (THEY ARE LEGAL, MR. DEA AGENT) occasionally hallucinating Cuban cabana boys (and, for that matter, a cabana), I am as tightly wound as a wee circus mouse on a crack bender. I’m desperately wishing that I had some houses to build or decks to pound together with my bare hands or perhaps a dozen orphans to care or maybe a small island to build with some dirt and a bucket.
This here, THIS IS MOTHERFUCKING BAT COUNTRY, Pranksters.
Or maybe I’m just on speed. And it totally and completely sucks.
I’ve never been on it before, but Ben had to take it for his chest years ago and I remember he was a total asshole whenever he was on it. Daver and I always dreaded it.
I’m just incredibly annoying to be around and I’ve apologized preemptively to anyone who deals with me on a regular basis because I’m now wired and COMPLETELY aggressive.
My internal monologue is something like this:
WHERE IS EVERYONE? WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING TO ME? I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD. HELL, I WISH I COULD LAY OFF THE SPEED. WOW, I CAN GET SO MUCH DONE. WHERE IS EVERYONE? WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING TO ME? WHY ISN’T PURPLE A FLAVOR? WHY ISN’T SOMEONE MAKING ME BACON RIGHT NOW?
So if I’m annoying to deal with, it’s actually MORE annoying to be inside my head.
Only. seven. more. days.
I am over at Toy With Me talking about how I annoyed a stalker into submission and shockingly, it’s safe for work, which means I am probably losing my edge and should be taken out back and shot.