Medicate Me

I have never been one for the doctor's office. They always seem to mess something up, or never really solve the problem, forcing me to come back there at a later date to get another prescription for a drug whose name no human would be able to pronounce. Back in May I went to four different doctors, only one of which was able to diagnose me correctly. I suppose it's not an exact science.

In college, the doctor's office seems like even less of a grand idea. Ironically, sickness spreads like wildfire on a campus. People share EVERYTHING in college. Let's be honest, we're dirty people. College kids tend to share food, drinks, and clothing. That's disgusting. Do you know how many germs are in all of those things? That's a lot of germs.

I tend to pride myself on my vulture-like immune system. This is, of course, entirely false. It comes from an apathy towards the filth on anything I tend to be eating. I'm not saying that I'm a filthy person necessarily. But I worked in a restaurant, and I know the dirty things that they let slide the USDA will never find out about. You don't know what you're eating most of the time. And most of the time, you don't want to know.

Last week my vulture-ness failed me. I've become more sick than I would like to admit. The constant hacking cough, the headaches, the works. Great fun. Unable to work up the motivation to go to a clinic, I opted for the grocery store treatment instead. I'm currently on a diet of over the counter medicine, green tea, and oatmeal. Great stuff.

I have another unfortunate disability in my life, though. It's called "Being a Dumbass". Last week, as I was sitting on the couch, enjoying a cocktail of Robitussin and cough drops, my roommate stared at me in horror. "Do you realize," he said, clutching the bottle of 'tussin, "you're only supposed to take 4 teaspoons in 24 hours at most?" I stared back at him. I could have sworn it was 6 tablespoons in 4 hours, or something like that. I'm bad with numbers and don't like those little medicine cups they give you so, so I just sort of take swigs out of the bottle. They look so nice and welcoming, after all. I think every bottle of medicine should come with a little "Drink me" tag like Alice would want it.

Among teenagers nowadays, it's actually very popular to slurp up cough syrup like a rapper. Robotripping has been trending for some time, thanks to the easy access and relative affordability. Better than whip-its and paint, I suppose.

I had never really experienced robo-tripping for myself until that night. I attempted a casual walk away from the couch towards my bedroom, only to find the entire floor shifting. My brain juggled lobes inside my skull, eyes popping out of the head to try and re-calibrate myself. My feet were so loose I had to stomp them into the ground to keep them attached.

Finally making into the bedroom, I clawed apart the blanks and tried to focus my mind on sleeping. There was a clicking noise, as if one of the brain gears had come a little loose. Click, click, put yourself to sleep, ya bastard. The clicking wouldn't stop, but I didn't have time for that. I had to sleep it. It was a school night, and spiders on your brain can't force you to discount academics.

One of my roommates was watching an episode of Rugrats in the other room, the one where they find a batch of kittens underneath a house or something... hell if I know, I watched that show when I was seven. Who the hell watches that nowadays? I drifted into sleep wondering how my roommate was considered more normal than I was.

I don't typically remember dreams. I tend to wake up in a river of saliva and question what the hell happened in the witching hours. However, when consuming copious amounts of cough syrup your brain melts away and is replaced with an oozing, pus-filled organ, racking your skull like a broken pinball machine. Everything you perceive visually tends to be out of nightmares and horror films. Dying pregnant women, skulls with the flesh torn half off, rape, murder, yadda yadda. You get the picture. I won't get too graphic. The most horrifying part had to be the slowed down version of the Rugrats theme song blaring in my head. Doo doo doo doo doo, doo doo doo doo....

I hate to cut short on the dream sequence, but I like to keep things family friendly. If you come from a very deranged family, at least. Needless to say, I've been self-medicating with considerably more moderation since then. The accidental robo-tripping into Hell tends to wake you up. However, if you got the opposite idea from this post, nightmare bottles are readily available at your nearest convenience store for about ten bucks.