I’ve spent the better part of the past five days feeling sorry for myself, and I’m starting to feel a bit silly. I had a rather emotional weekend, followed by some distressing news from someone near and dear to me on Monday. Three days straight of excessive crying resulted in THE MOST GOD AWFUL MIGRAINE I’VE EVER EXPERIENCED. Seriously, it felt like zombies were feeding on my brain. So, I had to stay home from work on Tuesday, mostly because I couldn’t trust myself to drive. I slept all day, and then at 4:30pm woke up and remembered that I desperately needed to cash my paycheck so that I would have enough money to actually drive to work the next day (which would be today, for those who are paying attention).
I got to the bank two minutes after they closed. I ran up to the glass doors, pulled on them frantically, yelled some stuff about jihad and waved a toy pistol. Not really, but I wanted to after the employees inside grinned and waved at me as if they were pleased with my plight. Oh no you di-int, girlfriend!
At this point, since I was already up, and feeling generally lonely and combustible, I went over to my aunt and uncle’s house. They make me feel very happy, and I’m not just saying that because they read this blog and could revoke my internet/dinner privileges (which are AWESOME, by the way). My aunt helped me fill out my insurance forms for work, and my uncle diagnosed me as skin-cancer-free. Two less things for me to worry about! Now, if they could just help with the zombie problem…
Despite going to bed at a reasonable hour (10pm), I still managed to sleep in until 8:15 this morning, waking up with a KILLER, MONSTROUS, ZOMBIE-INDUCED headache and exactly fifteen minutes to get dressed, showered, and make my 22 mile, thirty-five minute commute. In a car that was reading below “E” on the gas gauge. I’d like to tell you that I simply teleported and made it on time, showered, bearing gifts. I’m sorry to disappoint my loyal fans, but that did not happen. I DID, however, brush my hair. Teeth? No. Shower? No. Deodorant? No. PERFUME, Megan? FOR CHRIST’S SAKE, AT LEAST SAY YOU PUT ON PERFUME?! Alack and alas, I did not. I showed up to work, befuddled, headachy, stressed-out (but relieved that my car had actually made it), twenty-one minutes late. Oddly enough, two people told me I look pretty today. Oh yes, they di-id! (…That doesn’t work. I won’t do it again.)
It was a bit of a sad day at work, I found out that two of my co-workers, Sarcastic Guy and Emo Kid, were transferred. I liked them a lot, and I was sad to see them go. I actually cried, although I must admit that my tears were less for my co-workers (who I have known for less than two weeks), and more because I had a killer headache, and I knew that Sarcastic Guy had kept extra-strength Tylenol in his desk. I was pretty disappointed to see him and his zombie-fighting medicine go. (Also, he was nice, and funny, and friendly, but I’m getting too sentimental.)
By about 10am, my headache was so awful, I ransacked our entire kitchen area hoping to find some sort of painkiller. Finally, I asked my co-worker, The Hobbit. I don’t know why I didn’t ask him in the first place. He, like Sarcastic Guy, is nice, funny, and friendly (without even being sarcastic!). Immediately, The Hobbit produced a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin, and procured two pills for me. He even went so far as to actually read the directions to make sure he wasn’t giving me an overdose. What class! The headache quieted down to a dull roar, and skulked off to my right temple, where it would occasionally take off its shoes and throw them against my skull, or punch my eyeball with tiny daggers.
After lunch, my boss asked me how I was feeling. (As an aside, I work in a place with a lot of nice people who are quite concerned about my well-being. I enjoy that). I told him that I had taken Excedrin, drank a Coke, and had some lunch and was feeling generally much better, thanks for asking. He thought for a moment, then said, “Doesn’t Excedrin cause liver damage? Or is that Tylenol?” “No, no,” said I, of the cirrhotic liver, “That would be Tylenol.” I didn’t bother to explain WHY I knew this. Some things should simply not be said. At work, anyway. That is what blogs are for.
