I woke up Thursday with a migraine, which is annoying. When you wake up with one, there's really nothing you can do. It's often too late to take medicine. But took some I did, and fortunately it worked, so I only had to work with a migraine for, you know, three hours or something comfy like that.
Then on Friday I woke up with a migraine.
And because I'd had one the day before, that crept back in at night, I'd taken two pills Thursday, which means on Friday I had half a pill left.
Here's the thing about my goddamn medication. You get nine to a pack. That's all they'll sell you. And you could go around with two-and-a-half pills for three weeks before you need more. And they won't do refills till 30 days have passed.
So what ALWAYS HAPPENS is I have a bad day, get down to one or one-and-a-half pills, panic and call the pharmacy and
get told I don't have any refills. I swear to you it seems that way. I get migraines constantly, every month, since I'm 25. JUST GIVE ME THE GODDAMN REFILL.
So then I call the doctor, and I have to sit through that
voice mail, where they
tell you to pay attention cause their prompts have changed, and why the fuck do they always do that? Why? They HAVE NEVER CHANGED IN NINE YEARS OF THAT PLACE.
So you finally get the assistant to your doctor, but you never REALLY get her, no. You get a machine, of course, telling you that if this is a real emergency to hang up and dial SUCK MY DICK YOU CONDESCENDING 20-YEAR-OLD NINNY.
THEN, they ask you to be sure to tell them your name, the patient's name, their date of birth, a phone number "where you can be reached"
Oh, really? Because you don't want to FUCK AROUND with voice mail? Really? I wonder what that feels like.
The point is, they go on and on after and you can never remember, by the time it beeps, what all you're supposed to tell them. Also, ALSO, every doctor at that place has at least one day a week that they're gone by noon. At this point I work with THREE doctors there, so often have I called needed a refill and the doctor is out till the next
ALSO, if this weren't enough, they tell you, Prescription refills will be filled within 48 hours.
Why don't you suck my enormous fire hose of a dick.
I HAVE A MIGRAINE! GIVE ME MORE THAN NINE AT A TIME AND GIVE ME REFILLS IF YOU'RE GONNA BE DICKS ABOUT REFILLS OH MY GOD.
So, you see how I maybe got a tad hot under the collar just now? You can imagine my sparkling mood Friday morning when faced with all the above AGAIN, for the NINE HUNDREDTH TIME, and basically the message I left for the "assistant" aka never-ending voice mail contained even more F words than I've already uttered. I was SO ANGRY.
In case my mood wasn't clear. Oh, and also? I'd tried the pharmacy three times to see if they could help, and it just rang and rang, and finally I called customer service. "The pharmacy isn't open yet, ma'am." What is this, 1980? You can't have a MESSAGE saying that? I get machines when I don't want them, and I don't get them when I need them.
Seriously. When you're sick, the last thing you should have to put up with is all that bullshit.
So I left the F-y message with the doctor on my drive to work, then called my stepfather and had HIM call in my goddamn prescription, as he is a doctor and plays one on my blog.
Several hours later, I was working, when my phone rang. It was my doctor's office. By that time I was so mortified about how sweary I'd been that I did not pick up. Now I gotta get a new doctor.
I mean, really. It's bullshit, that place.
I can't remember now what I did on Friday night--oh! I got my fortune told.
I went to the place I always go, and Ima keep her predictions a secret this time, and let you know later if she was right. "Can June really afford to see a psychic?" everyone's asking, lips pursed. NO, okay? I LEARNED IT FROM YOU, DAD. I learned it from you.
Name that commercial.
On Saturday, I woke up with a migraine.
Because I'd been so busy psychic-ing on Friday, I'd failed to get my prescription filled, after all that. So go to the pharmacy I did, on Saturday, where next door at PetSmart they were having dog and cat adoption days, and why do you guys let me go to things like that? It'd be like letting the men's Olympic skating team peruse PenisSmart.
There was a large, black, Lab/Newfie-looking mix of a 7-year-old dog there whose people had to go to assisted living, and she was sweet and calm, and see above ref to PenisSmart. Goddammit. I can't seem to forget her. Her WindSong stays on my mind.
Anyway. I also attended a movie with Wedding Alex; we saw Get Out. Have you seen Get Out? There go my chances for ever banging a man of color. Every man of color in America is gonna look at us white girls askance now. Especially me. "Oh, come on home to my liberal therapist family!"
On Sunday I woke up with a migraine.
Mother of god.
I mean, this was a horrendous migraine. Of the don't-throw-up migraines. I literally got out of bed twice Sunday: in the morning to let Edsel out and to feed everyone, and in the evening to let Edsel out and to feed everyone. I ate nothing (of COURSE I weighed myself today. What are you, new?) except for some fizzy water I used to swallow the
NINE HUNDRED PILLS
I took to feel better, none of which worked. Edsel crept gingerly to my bed and licked my temple where it hurts, meaning most likely I have a tumor. Which, GOOD. Then they can fix it or I can at least die.
Finally, at, like, 10 p.m., I looked at my phone for the first time that day.
I had 939485839393 messages.
Oh what the fuck, I wondered, barely able to function.
Seems I'd left a sad image on Instagram Friday, which I did, but mostly cause I thought it was beautiful writing and I wish I could write anything poignant other than "fuck" all the time.
I also wish I had a tidy little name like Lang Leav. How easy it'd be to sign for things.
Well, anyway, my father saw it, and apparently texted me at some point Sunday, and when I didn't answer, he called, then he called again, and THEN HE CALLED MY MOTHER to say that I was "missing" and then he called my aunt, and then my mother called Ned
to whom I'm not even speaking
and then everyone called me, EXCEPT FOR NED, who apparently does not care that I'm in a shallow grave somewhere.
So, picture it. You've been wishing to die all day, with the pain and the nausea and the sleeping and the more nausea and pain, and then you look at your phone and you have
EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE to call or text back with "migraine."
Then everyone calls and texts back. "Oh, good! I was worried you were dead! And also, while I've got you on the phone, blllooopeldy bloop bloo! heeeee! And bloodeldy bloop! What do you think of that, June? ...June? Are you there, June?"
Oh my god.
Plus also, I had to call Ned, to whom I'm not speaking in case I hadn't mentioned that, and he was all, "I talked to your mother, and we discussed movies, and then I went down and locked my doors in case you were coming over here to kill me."
It wasn't till much later that I got
that Ned just...LOCKED HIS DOORS and didn't COMB THE STREETS looking for me. JESUS! Locked his doors. Oh my god, irritated.
So that, folks, is how I managed to have drama in my life even when I was lying there dying and minding my own business.