I'm a junkie
Last night I did everything right. I took a long, hot bath to calm my back. I took four ibuprofen about an hour before retiring. Mr. Aba even offered to sleep in the guest bedroom so I could stretch out.
My back didn’t give a rat’s ass. At 3am, it was ready to get up. Or, at least, sit up. I tossed and turned, and no matter which way I lay, it was painful. Not excruciating pain, but uncomfortable enough that sleep was not an option. I contemplated taking more ibuprofen, but I’d been taking so much that I feared that more would make me nauseous. Then, I remembered. I remembered the Vicodin!
A year or so ago, I found a bottle of Vicodin in the garbage. “Mr. Aba,” I called out, “What’s this doing in the garbage?”
“I didn’t want it around, so I threw it out.”
“What?!? We might NEED this someday!” I replied, and fished it out of the garbage.
Let me explain something. I’m a girl who likes Vicodin. I used to have a dentist who so sympathized with the pain caused by my habit of clenching my jaw that she’d write me prescriptions for The Big V whenever I’d call her. If I were going to be a prescription drug junkie, Vicodin would be it.
I am not, however, a prescription drug junkie, since the bottle I held in my hands was dated 1999 and contained only one pill. I sat in the bathroom and debated. Would taking a prescription painkiller make me a junkie? Or was I already doomed, the mere act of fishing it out of the garbage a year before proof of my junkie-hood? Well, I hadn’t had a drink in almost a week, and I always said that alcohol was my drug of choice, so if I was an addict, I wasn’t doing very well at it. I downed the Vicodin.
Ah, the bliss. My back pain was gone in fifteen minutes, replaced by that lovely fizzy sensation that only The Big V gives. I fell asleep, singing the praises of opiates.
My back didn’t give a rat’s ass. At 3am, it was ready to get up. Or, at least, sit up. I tossed and turned, and no matter which way I lay, it was painful. Not excruciating pain, but uncomfortable enough that sleep was not an option. I contemplated taking more ibuprofen, but I’d been taking so much that I feared that more would make me nauseous. Then, I remembered. I remembered the Vicodin!
A year or so ago, I found a bottle of Vicodin in the garbage. “Mr. Aba,” I called out, “What’s this doing in the garbage?”
“I didn’t want it around, so I threw it out.”
“What?!? We might NEED this someday!” I replied, and fished it out of the garbage.
Let me explain something. I’m a girl who likes Vicodin. I used to have a dentist who so sympathized with the pain caused by my habit of clenching my jaw that she’d write me prescriptions for The Big V whenever I’d call her. If I were going to be a prescription drug junkie, Vicodin would be it.
I am not, however, a prescription drug junkie, since the bottle I held in my hands was dated 1999 and contained only one pill. I sat in the bathroom and debated. Would taking a prescription painkiller make me a junkie? Or was I already doomed, the mere act of fishing it out of the garbage a year before proof of my junkie-hood? Well, I hadn’t had a drink in almost a week, and I always said that alcohol was my drug of choice, so if I was an addict, I wasn’t doing very well at it. I downed the Vicodin.
Ah, the bliss. My back pain was gone in fifteen minutes, replaced by that lovely fizzy sensation that only The Big V gives. I fell asleep, singing the praises of opiates.