migraine, pain, torture,
I'm on day three of the migraine modern medicine can't touch. Day three. In case you've never had a three day migraine: day one, you moan and whinge in a darkened room. Day two, you curse the day you were born, and your parents for bringing you into the world- and its migraines. By day three, you're ready to set your feet on fire for the momentary distraction it would bring from the pain in your head.
I'm at work.
Our holiday policy is that if you don't come in the day before and the day after a holiday, you don't get paid for the holiday. I need that money. Really, really need it.
So here I sit, with the migraine that would qualify as torture under the Geneva Convention, under the bright, flourescent lighting, listening to the ringing phones, the copiers, the printers, and all my talkative coworkers, who each seem to have 12,000 stories to tell from Memorial Day- at top volume.
So, who has a lighter?