Meth Heads Hear Me Now

I hope every meth head who ruined it for us all gets the flu--the most rare kind--and suffers because they have to show their ruined i.d. in order to get a bottle of DayQuil or the generic version of such medicine. I hope they die with phlegm packing their lungs, making them have to sleep in an upright position so they don't drown--if they can sleep at all. I hope their skin ages another 50 years as they're sneezing snot out of their noses at high velocity. I hope the fever that racks their bodies burns out the drugs in their system as well as burn off their stupidity. Perhaps that'll teach them that they're all a pack of idiots.

Whatever bug I caught has hit me hard. I couldn't sleep last night and got up at about midnight to watch the rest of Big Brother All Stars that I had Tivo'd. (Drat that Mike! Can't stand him, either). I took a quarter dose of Tylenol PM, but it didn't do me any good. Sleep doesn't come if you can't breathe. I went back to bed about 12:30, hoping the Tylenol would kick in, but my lungs felt like I could drown if I laid flat. I propped myself up, reminding me of my pregnancy days when I couldn't sleep, either. Somehow, I must have fallen asleep, but it was fitful.

Dale had volunteer time this morning, and it was just me and the kid. When I gathered enough energy to actually get dressed, off to Wal-Mart we went. First aisle: DAYQUIL (or the generic thereof) and NYQuil (or the generic thereof). Nyquil was easy, but it must be the ingredients in DayQuil that meth-makers really relish. There were plastic cards made up to take one card to the pharmacy register to get one bottle.

Okay. Great.

I took a card, Emily was quiet and not telling me yet another story about flying unicorns, and I passed by three workers in the pharmacy and I stood at the neglected register. One of the problems with that is that though these workers know there are people in the pharmacy, they don't seem to think that any of their customers will need to pay for anything. The Register Goes Unnoticed by WalMart Pharmacy Workers. I waited. I made some noise. I waited. I coughed--which is not a pretty sound lately. I took my meth-head induced card to one of the workers who was at the window. She tells me to go wait at the register.

You have to realize that not only do I not feel well, I'm also premenstrual. I don't have the energy to do anything more than shoot her my PMS look.

Thankfully, she makes it to the register, gives me wrong directions, has to see my driver's license, I have to sign a document on their little machine--the one where it looks like my signature was drawn while I was on crack. I croak out a thank you, and hope it's obvious to her that I am actually going to use this medicine for good and not evil.

Emily and I finish our shopping, go to the register, and by golly, if I didn't have to show my driver's license again.

I want every meth-head to line up while I sneeze and cough on them.

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