There and Back Again
I haven't mentioned it, because I'm not a whiner, but I've been sick for most of the last week. Nasal congestion. Wet, hacking cough. A nightmare.
I don't like to self-medicate, but at a certain point I went down to the St. James Infirmary (it might have been a CVS) and took the product the pharmacist told me to take. Interestingly enough, they asked for my drivers' license, which they then swiped through the computer, then sold me the product. Some version of restricted OTC, since I just wandered in with snot dripping down my nose, no prescription, a modern-day Aqualung.
The medication -- called Mucinex-D (I prefer more melodious pharmaceutical brand names like Eliquis, for example, but don't get me started on that commercial) -- contains a bit of pseudoephedrin which, as I understand it, is one of the basic ingredients in cooking meth. Hence the scan.
The side effects were strange. Not unexpectedly so, since I've taken products like this before, but you get that slightly jazzy, jingle-jangle effect. Like the Byrds playing Chimes of Freedom, but less pleasing. A slightly elevated experience but not in a particularly pleasant way. To quote Bilbo Baggins, "I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread."
Of course he felt that way from the cumulative effects of bearing The One Ring for several decades, which Lord knows is no fucking picnic, and so I should stop complaining. I'm just dealing with a cough. And besides, I've found the solution to the problem to be the judicious application of shots of Grand Marnier. I'm still trying to get the exact dosage down -- I've fallen down the stairs twice -- but thank God I'm as loose as a goose.
And just back to the cooking meth business for a moment, one of the positive outcomes of my illness was the opportunity to sit in a comfortable chair with a blanket over me, Grand Marnier in hand, and binge-watch the first two seasons of Breaking Bad on Netflix. Which is just about as good as everybody has told me it would be.
Oh look -- here's Bob Dylan and most of the Byrds singing Mr. Tamborine Man. It's pretty good for a bunch of old guys singing a 50 year-old song. Me? I've always loved the Byrds, although David Crosby might consider laying off the Doritos and onion dip.
The good news is that I'm starting to feel better.
I don't like to self-medicate, but at a certain point I went down to the St. James Infirmary (it might have been a CVS) and took the product the pharmacist told me to take. Interestingly enough, they asked for my drivers' license, which they then swiped through the computer, then sold me the product. Some version of restricted OTC, since I just wandered in with snot dripping down my nose, no prescription, a modern-day Aqualung.
The medication -- called Mucinex-D (I prefer more melodious pharmaceutical brand names like Eliquis, for example, but don't get me started on that commercial) -- contains a bit of pseudoephedrin which, as I understand it, is one of the basic ingredients in cooking meth. Hence the scan.
The side effects were strange. Not unexpectedly so, since I've taken products like this before, but you get that slightly jazzy, jingle-jangle effect. Like the Byrds playing Chimes of Freedom, but less pleasing. A slightly elevated experience but not in a particularly pleasant way. To quote Bilbo Baggins, "I feel thin, sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread."
Of course he felt that way from the cumulative effects of bearing The One Ring for several decades, which Lord knows is no fucking picnic, and so I should stop complaining. I'm just dealing with a cough. And besides, I've found the solution to the problem to be the judicious application of shots of Grand Marnier. I'm still trying to get the exact dosage down -- I've fallen down the stairs twice -- but thank God I'm as loose as a goose.
And just back to the cooking meth business for a moment, one of the positive outcomes of my illness was the opportunity to sit in a comfortable chair with a blanket over me, Grand Marnier in hand, and binge-watch the first two seasons of Breaking Bad on Netflix. Which is just about as good as everybody has told me it would be.
Oh look -- here's Bob Dylan and most of the Byrds singing Mr. Tamborine Man. It's pretty good for a bunch of old guys singing a 50 year-old song. Me? I've always loved the Byrds, although David Crosby might consider laying off the Doritos and onion dip.
The good news is that I'm starting to feel better.
posted by Geoffrey at 2:30 PM
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