At my appointment yesterday, the doctor loaded me up with prescriptions like I was a rheumy-eyed eighty-year-old. She doubled the initial very low dose of my anti-depressant, rewrote my prescription for a year of birth control, and put me on antibiotics for my sinusitis/swollen glands issue. Now I can look forward to picking up all my drugs after work and laying down a good 150 bucks. Nice. I hope I get that pharmacist who acts like she's going to crumble into a thousand shards of glass if she doesn't use her library voice and handle the paper bags like they are made of wet tissue. She seems really nice, and her gentleness is both disarming and terribly pleasant after a day of cubicle-sitting.

Until then, I am just hanging on by sheer will. I am beleaguered by sleeplessness, battling my body's desire to press my plump cheek into the cool keys on the keyboard and let my face do the typing for a couple of hours.

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Damned keyboard beeps and freezes up when I do that. The keys do feel quite nice pressed to the cheek, though, I must say.

This is what happens when Schmutzie:

  • wakes up just after 2 a.m.,
  • finds she is swaddled in wet sheets drenched in her own cold sweat, and then spends the following four-and-a-half hours alternating between
  • being a poop machine with truly remarkable output,
  • puking up yesterday's pasta salad repeatedly and with much gusto into the sink,
  • and consoling worried kittens while huddling up to a rusty radiator on the kitchen floor.
  • Good times were had by none.

    tr6grvgg68 m,i9 bnhjucvdf6t5f beep beep beep beep beep

    On second thought, I hope I get the pharmacist who's all straightforward and in my face and asks me unnecessarily intimate questions about my choice in birth control and has bright forest green streaks in her hair. If I get the fraidy-cat one, I just might fall asleep and drool on the counter while they bottle my drugs.