Today marks day three that I have gone to bed with a pms headache and woken up with the same dreaded headache. I take two advil, drink a cup of strong coffee and stick my head under the hot shower for about 10 minutes, twice a day. I get out and rub lovely Chinese oil all over my neck and I get relief for a while. At night, I can’t do the caffeine, so I just suffer silently. I go to bed with my head smashed between two ice packs and try to block out light and sound, and I know I’m going to wake up with the same headache. I can’t get to the coffee pot fast enough in the morning. My head throbs with each step. My kids are loud assholes and they simply don’t understand I just want to cry and curl up and pray for it to stop.
Besides the regular anxiety from D-day strangling me like a tight noose, I learned that some jackwad charged $361 to my debit card, from Match.com, Teleflora flowers, and several packages at USPS.com. Dear Sir, I hope the chick you picked up at Match.com then sent flowers and gifts to ends your date with her prison shank shoved deep up your ass.
Because that was only mildly annoying, we then woke up to find that a stolen Penske moving van has been abandoned in the street in the front of my house. So now the anxiety of the armed robbery and kidnapping is front and center too. I imagine that gangsta ass robbing thieves were standing on the curb in front of my house again while they dumped the vehicle. Really motherfuckers? I don’t need this shit right now. I’m suddenly back to being on full alert. I imagine myself blowing some fucking heads off people if they dare put a pinky toe near my home. Why yes, I’m a bit psycho like that. I strongly suggest waiting to fuck with me until we at least flip the calendar.
I got a text last night at 10:30 from one of my favorite muthas. I told her all of the above and ten minutes later she was at my door with hot compresses and medicine.
“What are you taking for stress?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“What is wrong with you? Why are you trying to be a fucking superhero?”
“I don’t know,” I mumble, “I guess I thought I’ve been ok lately.”
“Well, you are not ok now. You’re talking crazy shit. Open your mouth, take this.”
“Why is it white? Mine are yellow.” I notice it is 2mg, I usually take .5. “This is too much,” I say.
“What? Too much? Is that why I’ve been running into cars lately?” We laugh hysterically and I’m struck by the awesomeness in the room. This mutha, she is close to being in my shoes. Her Dave is still alive. Hanging on by a thread. Every 3 months, he almost dies from drink. How did these two strong, beautiful, smart, hilarious ninja chicks marry men that will literally die from addiction? I still pray there is hope for him. But the path of his destruction is severe.
As the mutha was leaving last night, we suddenly see a man walking on the sidewalk, near the abandoned truck. On high alert, we both start babbling, “Who is this fucking weirdo?” and “What kind of fuckery is this?”
“Excuse me,” she calls out. He keeps walking, faster. “Did you just come from that vehicle?” I call out. He finally answers, embarrassed, “I’m just walking home.” We crack up laughing as he walks into my neighbor’s house. I think he’s the son in law. Whoops. Can’t be too cautious. Especially with these muthas here. She once called 911 on someone shortly after Katrina because they were walking down the street with a pillow. "What's he doing?" the operator asked. "He's walking with a pillow! He's probably going to go and try and sleep somewhere!" she screams.
The only thing I’m posting on the 5th is the suicide note. I’m setting it now to be automatically posted at 5:08 p.m. So if that’s going to freak you out, don’t read it.