“But honey, I’m not done drinking yet.”

Now that I’ve got  your attention, yes, those were my very words about twenty minutes ago.  Of course, just to be clear, that time is only accurate in reference to when I started writing this.  I am, after all, typing with a buzz and a cast– and due to the former condition, am mocking some schmuck (that I don’t even know) on a friend’s facebook page.  If my ass gets any bigger, or if I end up with acne and my girlfriend leaves me, my transformation into a walking stereotype of failed manhood will be complete.  Oh, all these horrible realizations that have come from surgery– or rather the inordinate amount of time I’ve had to just… think.

So here I sit, nursing a budding headache, and watching Robot Chicken and …  ugh, you know what?  Screw this, Svedka Cherry makes headaches worse.  There’s your FYI for the night, I’ll finish this later.  I need some sleep.

One crappy night’s sleep and half a day later…

I am officially a dumbass.  Rule #1 of headaches, especially of the burgeoning migraine variety:  do not freaking drink more.  They will only get worse, and you will end up with the same headache and a hangover the next morning.  Feel free to point and laugh, because I have been facepalming all morning.

After all the years I’ve spent as a fore-running proponent of the epic lushes against irresponsible alcoholics, you’d think I’d have learned one of the cardinal self-preservation rules.  Apparently I have not.  I should have let my girlfriend put the Svedka away, it would have saved me a case of the FML’s this morning.  Either that or I should have pulled a House, downed two Norco, and not given a flying damn– except I’m saving my remaining Norco for when I start physical therapy in a week and a half.

Yes, I’ve had this cast for over a month now, and finally there’s a light at the end of my gimpified tunnel.  Then again, that’s just the full-arm cast.  I have no idea what the future holds, so I’m being uncharacteristically optimistic.  For all I know, they’re gonna put me in another, smaller cast.

This brings me to something that has been an intriguing footnote to this entire odyssey.  This is the first cast I’ve ever had.  Most people get exotic colors, or have people make like tattoo artists all over their exoskeletons.  My cast is as virgin and vanilla as the day I got it.

The cast, just as "perfect" as the day it was applied...

Isn’t this what kids look forward to?  Don’t they look forward to having their friends sign, draw-on, and otherwise deface that which is both healing and handicapping them?  Well, apparently that’s not so vogue when you’re in your early 30’s…  either that, or I’ve progressed farther into becoming a reclusive, obese, basement denizen than I thought.

Everyone, grab your sharpies.  Realize that my two nieces and nephew will probably see what you’ve drawn.  My self-respect is on the line here.  Time to do work.  I will not let my first (and hopefully last) cast ever go into that good night without even a single mark.

Unplug.

Painkillers With No Work Ethic

Norco, or Vicodin after it reinvented itself.

See that?  Most entry-level pill heads get off on Vicodin, Lortab, or other hydrocodone-based medications… basically the older brothers of these little buffed bastards.  Now, a certain pharmacist I know (legitimate pharmacist, in case there was any question) cued me in on a little tidbit.  These were reformulated with less acetaminophen (read Tylenol, for the uneducated lot that stumbled over this blog due to the narcotic references) because some weaklings were murdering their livers by taking more than the prescribed dosage.  Acetaminophen will do that, because it’s a jerk.

So enter Norco, with a way better hydrocodone to acetaminophen ratio.  Again, lemme dumb it down for the slow kids, more of the gets-you-loaded stuff with less murder-your-liver stuff.  Now, for me, this is a twofold advantage.  One, I’ve been immune to acetaminophen for years, unless paired with something else to give it some balls.   So that gives way to two– there’s no point taking a drug that is going to try and play jackhammer with my liver of steel.

So, here’s my dilemma.  I hate popping pills.  Hate it.  Primary reason?  Look up there, back to my comment about that immunity to acetaminophen.   My body adapts like the freaking Borg when it comes to medication.  Why, you may ask?  Beats me, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion it has to do with my champion liver, and the Olympic-grade training it has received over the years.  Don’t judge me, I’m now dealing with a byproduct of my own epic nature.  Seriously, this sucks about as hard as– oh yeah, having to learn how to be a lefty.

The goddamn drugs are working about as well as the dolts in Washington (but that’s totally another rant).  Let’s see, they started off with the promise of taking away the pain of surgery, and at first they did.  Now, I take them on the longshot hope that they’ll actually do something for me, so I don’t have to rely on my own tolerance and affinity for pain.  I even try to take them at random in a futile attempt to get some sweet relief.  Of course, tagging along with that Capitol reference, they arbitrarily work when they feel like it.  Go figure.  Sometimes I even luck out and get a little loopy with the intermittent pain relief.

Tonight, I suffer the same fate as I have for the past five days.  Norco has officially boned my sleep patterns, so my sorry insomniac ass is left watching reruns on Adult Swim.  I popped two on an empty stomach, faking optimism that it’d knock me out (thus allowing me to finally pass out on the couch at a reasonable hour).  This is why I’m a cynic, because optimism always leaves you up watching the same lame-ass Axe commercial that’s been running on and off for the past two years.  Shuffle in a shitload of Education Connection commercials with their inane jingle, and I’m about ready to try and choke myself out with the cast.  Oh wait, that’s right, I can’t reach my own damn throat.  Yays.

If only the Norco would work… For you House fans out there, that’s some serious ass literary license.  His liver would have more holes than the whole recurring Vicodin addiction subplot, and no freaking pain relief.

Maybe I should give myself a stranger, not like the drugs are gonna help.

Unplug.