I awoke this morning to a headache in full, splendiferous bloom. Of course, waking by itself — minus the bayonet through an eye — is never a picnic, what with consciousness and reality and all. But when you toss a blinding migraine into the mix you start the day by groping for a pillow to smother yourself. Or reciting a fervent prayer for death. One of the two.
On this particular morning, I kept my eyes clamped shut and went the hardcore supplication route. I begged shamelessly for mercy. Lying there, face down, the heels of my hands pressed deep into my eye sockets, I pleaded:
Don’t make me sneeze or cough or bend over; don’t smite me with hiccups. Don’t startle me or send a thunderstorm or allow garbage pickup. And please, whatever you do, don’t trip the smoke detector. Strike me deaf instead.
If you’re wondering how I found lucid words in the midst of such great suffering, I’ll tell you: they’re taped to the nightstand. While they’re a comfort, a pint of Jack Daniels is good, too. You know, as a fail-safe.
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