It's 4:30. FOUR THIRTY IN THE MORNING, AM, FOUR FUCKING THIRTY. She took off, didn't do what I'd asked, isn't answering her cell phone now that I was finally feeling desperate enough to crawl over to the fucking phone, I can't really call Dixon House at this hour since Robert works in the morning and I don't have the phone number of the place where she's supposedly at. I've been calling her cell phone for over a half hour now, no answer, and since the errand was to swing by the pharmacy before she left and pick up painkillers I'm now at the point where I can't sleep, can't lay down, can't sit up, can't do ANYTHING without being in pain... yeah, I'm not happy.

I've got a hellish sore throat, my back is being worse than usual, I've got what I suspect is a bladder infection, my tooth hurts, and hey, I've got a headache too. Lovely. If I hadn't said anything to her before she left, I wouldn't be this upset, it wouldn't be her fault... but dammit, she agreed, TWICE, and then just dropped off the radar. I'm not too worried, as I'm sure if something bad had happened her mom or dad would have called and they haven't, so yeah. She's off somewhere, likely drunk, may or may not be home any time soon, and I can't get ahold of her and can't get out to walgreens without her. *muttersnarkgripe* Oh, and I can't find the bottle of antihistamines.

I'm going to go back, lay down, drug myself silly with amatryptaline, leave a note on the bedroom door, and hope that I get a bit of sleep and get woken up by the arrival of painkillers and someone to snuggle. Failing this, I can at least hope that the amatryptaline gets me loopy enough that I won't care that I hurt. Stupid body.