The next time I have some hideous allergic reaction to the world, possibly blended with a virus, and the mucous is getting me down, and I’m balancing the evils of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride vs. the evils of sinus and ear pain and pressure, nay, even the threat of sinus and/or ear infection; remind me of this day.  Remind me that, while I may feel a bit better two hours after I take Satan’s little red pill; the morning after Satan’s little red pill will make my teeth itch, and my jaw ache, and my stomach churn, and all of the mucous will have just plain come back.  Because even though I have this big brain that can remember songs and stories and strange facts; and even though the meth manufacturers of the world have blown up so many houses that the US finally decided to put things that contain pseudoephedrine hydrochloride back behind a nice counter where it’s hard to reach them . . . some of the Devil’s medicine still lives in my house, and it tempts me with nonsense like "maybe I’ve overcome that particular side-effect."  Evil, evil pseudoephedrine hydrochloride.   I may be shaky, but I can still throw you away, you bastard pills.  And I can wait you out, mucous, because I have all of Firefly on DVD, and the complete Lord of the Rings, and lots of Jane Austen films, and I’m not afraid to watch them over and over again. 

Addendum:
It occurred to me, Gentle Reader, that you probably gave me the benefit of the doubt and assumed that I wrote that gibberish above and promptly got back into bed.  Er, no.  I am a both a smartass and a dumbass, remember.  I got dressed; explained to Scott that I had to go to work so as not to miss a very important meeting; commuted into the city (75 minutes worth, thank you Metro); tried to work; sweltered in our 90 degree office; realized I was turning into a zombie and likely to accidentally eat someone’s brain if I wasn’t careful; then realized I wasn’t really going to be of much help in that very important meeting; forced myself to eat a muffin instead of a brain; gave up; sighed; was reminded by a coworker that, as a salaried employee, I indeed have and am expected to use sick leave instead of subjecting others to my disgusting maladies; banged my head against a desk for a few minutes; commuted home (another 75 minutes–just enough time to finish my book but not long enough to be forced to use its pages as tissues); and collapsed on my couch, buried under very demanding pets, all of whom are apparently without a shred of compassion.  Let’s see if I can be as smart again tomorrow.

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