What Screams May Come

Here comes the pill choo choo. Chug-a-chug-a. Whoo whoo!

Fool me once? Shame on you.
Fool me twice? Shame on me.
Fool me thrice? Satan’s tongue is licking my brain.

What? Don’t worry. I’m past the point of making sense.

I’d like to meet the person who came up with the 4-hour schedule for taking meds. (That’s the medical word for pills.) I’ll bet the sadistic bastard was a doctor. Yeah. It had to be a doctor.

8 o’clock. 12 o’clock. 4 o’clock. Rinse. Repeat.

It’s only six little (well, actually giant) pills every 24 hours. That doesn’t sound so bad.

Even during the best of times the act of falling asleep can be a dicey proposition. When successful I feel this overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Likewise, when it doesn’t go so well I don’t exactly handle it with style and aplomb. I curse the universe, punch my pillow and hatch plots to establish a gated-community as soon as I land safely on Mars. Because I knows I’m gonna need me some exclusivity up there.

Falling asleep the first time? I call that a “good night.”

Falling asleep a second time in the same night? That’s like winning the lotto.

Falling asleep a third time in the same night? They’ll be making little snow bunnies in Hell. This would qualify as a miracle and earn you sainthood even if you’re not dead yet. This is literally the equivalent of being touched by the hand of God.

Suffice it to say that I haven’t found a way to reach that third stage yet.

Perversely, sleep is something that, the more you need it, the less likely it becomes. Funny, eh? Oh yeah, a friggin’ riot.

See you in the funny papers.