Wishing I Was Trent
Previous - this entry written on October 18, 2001 at 5:26 am - Next


I'm staring at a dose of NyQuill.

Generic NyQuill. No giant f'ing "Q".

Very tragic.

It's Cherry Death, better than original Green Death, better than Day-Glo Orange... but... y'know...

...it's still NyQuill.

Still nasty-ass shit.

And I'm glad, because that way I only take it when I need it. If it tasted as good as chewable tylenol or the grape kids' cough medicine, I'd be downing it daily.

So I'm staring at the dose of NyQuill, and wishing that I could breathe without it, wishing that my sinuses didn't ache and my throat didn't hurt and my lungs weren't full of some unknown, unnamed goop that I don't want to think about.

I'm eyeing it, the little cup full of crimson nastiness, and trying to get up the nerve to take it.

It's going to be a few minutes before I can manage it.

Even this entry, this is a delaying tactic. I don't want to taste the stuff, don't want to feel it slippery-gross on my tongue, don't want the horrible coated feeling my mouth takes on after a dose. Even the thought of sleep... it's not worth this.

Not yet.

But I'm getting so tired, and I hate fighting myself, so soon I'll give in.

Surrender to flame-colored oblivion and bottled dreams, my life flickering away in each new sip, each new and painful and horribly disgusting swallow.

One-seventh of your life is spent on Mondays.

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