My New Favorite Medication.

I thought I could fight it, but I was terribly wrong.

The hasty dose of NyQuil my mother poured me knocked me out within a measly twenty minutes.

There is no use in complaining about a remedy, really. Just before, my forehead and the space between my unruly eyebrows throbbed, probably bearably, but my wallowing and my complaints of feeling like a lifelong failure at the mere sensation of discomfort may have been the finger that knocked over the bitching dominoes.

I'm awake now, unsure of the time, but seeing as how I can't see much at all, I'll say it's been three hours. Trying to stretch lying face down in a mattress, I fail, only to discover a trail of slap-happy goo having traveled from my lips into the silent drums of my ears and into the salty seas of my eyes. Is there really any energy for me to be disgusted? Exactly. I sink further into the eyeliner-smeared sheets and comforters.

My eyes feel raw, overexhausted, and dry; my nose is slowly returning back to hollow, from the olfactory caverns up into my brain most likely, seeing as I can't process a damn thing besides these drunken bodily functions.

I've been crying, I conclude.

Usually, it would be easy to recall what I'd been crying about, which would inevitably lead to crying about what it was I'd been crying about and all that cyclical joy, but my body didn't have the will to withstand another set of uncontrollable, shaking sobs, let alone the brain function to remember the 1's times tables.

I need energy.

I need sugar.

Chocolate Krispies. The kitchen floor is probably cold, but my feet wouldn't know any better; my eyes would wonder how I got through the hallway so quickly, but they wouldn't bother raising their lids any higher; grabbing the cereal box from the cabinet and pouring it, I'm probably going to indulge in three times the recommended amount of rice (if that's what it could be considered), but my hands don't manage to give enough of a damn if I gain any more weight.

Now, milk. White. Grasp. Pull. Grab handle. Pull up. Shut. Look down. No spoon. Four fingers. Pull out. Reach. Pinch. Slam. Say sorry for loud slam. Grab bowl. Pour in white. Throw in spoon. Pick up. Left, right, left...left...left...fuck, right, left, right, more lefts and rights.

Knob.

Oh shit. Just sit down. No one will notice me.

Spoonfuls and much spittle down my mouth later, I'm a bit more concsious, if you can call it that, and my hearing gets louder. I would think I'm going insane, because all the hallway doors are closed and black, except for the bathroom's, but no one is in the bathroom, 'cause it looks dark blue and not lemony yellow, which means no one is in there, so then sounds would be coming from nowhere, so that nowhere is somewhere, and -

Shut up, my brain. Eat your damn sogging crisps.

But, my brain says, I can hear someone!

"Stuuuupiduh. brains don't hear, they think."

Listen. Gosh, my head's mean. Dumbass.

And oh yes, I can hear them, too. Well, no one's around, so maybe it's a ghost!

"You want me to drive at eleven at night to pick up your drunken ass at some pub?!"

A bitch-ghost.

The next voice comes in electronically slur. "I'm drunk senseless. A-and I'm'lone..how'djou esspec' me to drive back?"

I laugh. "Drunken roooo-bot." Wait, robots can't get drunk. Beer is water, so then, like, wouldn't it -

Shut the fuck up and listen!

Damn, sorry. Listening.

"My ass, you're alone. If I here just one woman, I swear to God..."

What's her ass got to do with it? And if the robot says he's alone, I would think he is. Believe him, stupid ghost-witch lady.

Oh wait, I think I just heard my name. And another one I kind of don't like, but know I still care about-ish.

"...the'remah e'rytheeng. You're my everything!"

Wow, a ghost and a robot like that? How does that work out in the whole phys-

Oh. God. If I had limbs, the shit I would do to you...

"Oh yeah, sorry. Uhm. Yeah." Liiiiiiiiiiiisten good.

"Like hell, we are. You haven't been home for two nights and three days. You never call, there's vomit on the carpet from the day you came and LEFT for half an hour-"

Robots vomit? Oh well, the cereal still looks somewhat unlike feces. Mmm.

"Well, why would I co'back? Have you'n'em h-hate me..."

'You and them'? Sound like a poor pair. Kind of like my socks. I knock them together with the rhythm of the ghost's anger and I think it's fear I hear shaking around my tan milk.

"Do you want to come back expecting fucking ROSES -"

I like lillies -

"- for being a poor excuse of a man, a father - "

- but he's a robot, isn't he? Men don't sound like--

"LET ME TALK, YOU BITCH -"

I gasp. So he is a man! This is so exciting, I start lapping chocolate milk from my spoon at lightning speed! What happens next?!

"I fucken luh'you, dere's no other woman, 'n no other girls o'my blood, so fucken un'erstand when I say I do care..."

Crap. She's a woman, too. Damn, my guessing skills suck.

"Come fucking talk to me when you're not drunk."

Isn't that a song?

Click.Operator tone.

Aww, show's over? Well, at least I don't feel scared, anymore.

I manage to finally prop myself up and turn my knob. It wasn't as much of a feat as I thought, having regained a bit more sense in my system.

I look at the bowl again, hoping to finally indulge myself in peace.

There's no more crisps swirling around.

The milk's not even enough for a spoonful.

I stare at the bowl.

Bowl.

Very deep. Nothing's there anymore.

Didn't see that coming.


I bawl like a baby, rocking back and forth. It's all gone. It's all fucking gone.