Two nights ago, I
promised myself that tonight I would sit down and write something/anything. I honestly
had nothing planned for this post but I knew deep down that the only way that I
could write is if I forced myself to. Normally, this would be fine and I would
be happily obliging with the of writing this post about whatever beautiful
artistically emotionally traumatically significant experience I can best
express in words… but there’s a slight problem:
I. Have. A. Headache.
I can sense that
you’re calling me a little bitch as we speak so I’m going to give you a few
facts about this headache.
FACT: This headache is
one of those 'have it, go to sleep with it, wake up with it, and have it all
the next day' headaches. Picture this: I’m a ten year old girl and this headache
is following me in a white van, stalking me through every corner and every
facet of my life as I try to run away from it’s gang-rape-of-the-brain.
FACT: In the stew of depression, regret and
agony that is my mind right now, I actually thought it was a good idea to not
only let my friends and I assault hit my head, but to bang it against a wall repeatedly to try
and block out the headache. The consequences of my idea was 5 seconds of bliss,
where the minor concussion made me forget where I was, and 23 minutes of me
whimpering under my pillow as the pain returned 10fold shortly after.
FACT: In the last
three hours I’ve taken four tablets of pain medicine and it has merely reduced
my migraine into a low throb that I feel in my temple, as if someone inside was
escaping the side of my head by breaking through my scalp with a baseball bat. But
wait, there’s more!! This feeling has combined with the drowsiness effect the
drugs so kindly blessed me with and placed me in the convenient position of
being on the verge of sleep yet being unable to actually fall asleep because of
the splitting pain. At this point of the pain cycle I would literally stab a
penguin in the throat if it looked at me funny.
FACT: Three facts ago
I described my headache as on par with gang rape of a ten-year-old girl... I
don’t know why I bothered going on.
I could have very
easily not written anything tonight, I could have taken the two extra pills to
knock me out into a torturous overnight hibernation, but something wouldn’t sit
right with me had I broken my own promise. I mean - you guys (does anyone even
read this?) wouldn’t know that I promised myself to write tonight, but I would
have known and wouldn’t have ever let myself forget. It is likely that I would - as a 40 year old man - be looking back into my past with regret from that time
on the 25th of February in 2012 where I said I would make a blog
post but didn’t. Of course, by then I will have 9 cats and a complete and total
loathing of life to get me through this horrible time. :D
Empty promises suck,
as all empty things do. Empty fridges suck, because they are void of food.
Empty glasses of water suck, because not even an optimist can see them in a
positive light. Empty jars of vegemite suck, because they remind you of what
vegemite tastes like.
Ever had an empty
taco? Imagine, as you bite into a hard shell of solitary, lonely tortilla, your
mouth being cut open by fragments of corn chip that slice your gums and tongue
with brute un-cushioned force. Your salivary glands moan and beg for a hint of
salsa… of meat… of guacamole… of anything... ANYTHING to stop the taste of marginally
salted incompleteness from sliding down your oesophagus. It is quite simply a
mastication massacre and you would literally kill for
that one grated strand of cheese or that one drop of sauce. But, alas, the taco
is empty because you broke that promise; you didn’t blog that humid
late-February evening and it never stopped haunting you.
Effectively, by
sitting here and typing this out right now, I’m having my tortilla AND eating it
too… all toppings included.
And it tastes fucking
great.
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