Dear Migraine

Piss or get off the pot.

Seriously.

You arrived last Saturday unannounced and, while you were not the worst migraine ever, you have refused to go away since.  A lot of coffee, a lot of Advil and a lot of fresh air make you tolerable but, sadly, I can’t tolerate as much coffee as you like.  And I’m stuck inside, underneath fluorescent lights and in front of a computer screen five days a week.

You’re leaving me unable to focus – both in terms of vision and concentration – on my task at hand, nauseated, slow and stabby.  It’s really a miracle I haven’t been asked to go home for sheer stupidity or accidentally smacking a superior.  You’re making my usual difficulties sleeping seem like a walk in the park.

I will admit that you have been helpful when it comes to getting me a spot on the skytrain; I apparently look awful enough to force little old men out of their well-earned seats as they earnestly offer them to me.  Thanks for that.  None of the offers have been too creepy. Yet.

And I guess I’m losing weight.  What with the not eating, what with the cranky stomach.  So, yes, my pants fit better.  But adding low-blood sugar into my headache stupor isn’t really letting me enjoy it properly, now is it?  A rather backhanded benefit, if you ask me.

So, really, I’ve had enough of your visit.  I know I invited you in when I unknowingly ate that minuscule amount of MSG just over a week ago and, as such, I had to put up with you for a time.  But that time has passed.  Twenty four hours is one thing.  Even up to 36, I could fathom.  But a week?  A full week of you?  I’m sorry.  I don’t even put up with very many friends, never mind blood relatives or actual enemies, for that long.

Here’s the deal: do what you need to do and get out.  It’s the weekend again.  You’ve had acupuncture and a massage.  If you still have something that you have to get out of your (my) system, then now’s the time to do it.  Because if you’re still here come Monday, it’s an Advil and caffeine war.

Now, if you’ll excuse, I’m going to try to get to bed early tonight and sleep you off.  After I hide the kitchen knives.

Yours, in exhaustion,

One response to “Dear Migraine

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