Sarah Morgan
You may know that I’m extremely unlikely to take drugs. And by “drugs,” I mean “aspirin.” I won’t get within ten feet of a Sudafed. I’m terrified of Nyquil. I recognize the irony inherent in my work in the pharmaceutical business. I just don’t like taking medicine.
All of which to emphasize the importance of the fact that I am now begging you for drugs. Anything. Codeine. Morphine. Botox. I don’t care. I’ve had a headache for two weeks in exactly the same spot. I’m going to have permanent forehead wrinkles. I’m going to lobotomize myself. I’m having dreams about being hit in the face with a door, because that’s what every moment of my day – and night – feels like. I can deal no longer with this dull ache. And the fact that the dull ache has, of late, been spontaneously giving me a jolt of actual shooting pain does not count as a change for the better.
Yes, the surgery went just fine. I’m very grateful and happy for that. I am, I promise. I just am really, really worn out from the recovery.
So. I need a dealer. The only happiness in my life, today, has come with the realization that Television Without Pity recaps Newlyweds. It’s such a cute show, y’all. Or, if you want to say it like Jessica, it’s k’yooooooot.
