Last night, I had a few drinks. I wasn't hammered, since it was only Captain & Cokes, and rum doesn't have nearly as much alcohol as my usual whiskey. However, when I got home from the bar, I felt an incredible pain where I just got a gum graft. I decided to take one of my pain pills, because I have a high tolerance of booze and pain medication (morphine, for example, does nothing for me; it takes Dilaudid to get through to me when I'm in pain). It didn't help, so I took another. I still felt shitty, so I did something I probably shouldn't have done: I took a third.
Booze and pain pills don't mix. Just ask Heath Ledger.
Anyway, I'm fine. But at the time? Yikes.
I dreamed that I was trying to go to sleep, except I didn't realize it was a dream at the time. In fact, looking back, I knew my eyes were closed, but I could still see through my eyelids. That probably should have been my first indication that I was dreaming.
But then I felt something pushing on my soul. It's hard to describe. I've never had old hag terrors, but I imagine that's what it feels like. I couldn't control my body as some force shoved itself into me, paralyzing me until there was more of it in my body than me. I tried to turn over, to turn away from whatever was doing this to me, but it wouldn't let me get away from it. It seemed like we battled in my body for hours, and finally, I managed to beat it back.
But I could still feel it. Every inch of my body undulated with its force, as if it were trying to get me to do its bidding. I managed to stumble to the bathroom, where I looked into the mirror and saw my face . . . swirling. I don't know how else to put it. Dents formed and squirmed in my face as if my own muscles were fighting against me. It's kind of like what the Vomit Comet does to astronauts in training, except all movements were measured and calculated.
I ran around to my family and tried to beg them for help, to tell them that something was inside me, trying to force me to do things. Everyone was too sleepy, though. They didn't want to hear it. No one believed me. No one would even look at me. I screamed for them to at least look at my savagely twisting face, but they just wouldn't do it.
Finally they looked, and whatever was in me chose that moment to stop. My family looked at me like I was crazy, or they were annoyed because they wanted to sleep so badly.
As soon as they looked away, it started again. After that, I don't remember much, but I woke up shortly after to the horrid sound of loud, near-diarrhetic farts. The smell formed a wall around me. Only then did I realize that I'd been dreaming. Some of the relatives I ran to for help aren't alive in real life. Details about the houses I ran through didn't match up with reality. I should have known that I was dreaming, but for some reason, it didn't register to my stupid mind.
But holy shit, these farts were nearly killing me. I was maybe three gassers away from becoming an urban legend. They were so close to messy shits, I knew that if I didn't get up, I ran the risk of shitting myself. Most of my body wanted to stay there and go back to sleep. It still felt dulled by the meds, and I wanted to relax and let the pills do their work. However, at the same time, I didn't want to shit myself for the second time in the same year as an adult. I didn't even want that ONE instance, but that was beyond my control, since I was dying at the time. Now? No. I couldn't allow it.
I dragged myself out of bed to the bathroom, where I sat on the toilet for a half-hour, dropping gassers so deadly they burned. No diarrhea, even though I'd expected it. But then again, painkillers tend to block me up, so I shouldn't have expected that, anyway.
Finally, I got up, wiped my customary three times--nothing, of course--and looked at the clock. Much to my surprise, I had only been asleep for ONE FUCKING HOUR. It had felt like an eternity.
I went back to bed and tried to go to sleep. I still had a bit of painkiller funk in me, so I had a slight smile on my face, but I just couldn't find slumber again. I twisted and turned, but nothing happened. Part of me was tempted to take another painkiller, just to get to sleep, but I'd been through enough. Besides, that way leads madness. So far, I've been able to avoid an opiate addiction. Hell, I bested the king of Elmhurst Hospital, Dilaudid. I'm not going to give in to these measly pain pills. In the end, I had to get up for work and go through the motions, exhausted out of my mind. The painkillers had worn off by then, but I felt so miserable, I almost didn't go to Days of the Dead tonight.
The brisk walk through the cold night from the parking garage to the hotel woke me up considerably, of course, but when I got home, I couldn't stay up for very long. I'm surprised I managed to write a GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS tonight, especially one this long.
Seriously. I'm on my last leg. I think I'll last long enough to post this thing, and that's it. Don't wake me for anything tomorrow. Hugs and kisses, all. --JB