Yesterday, I finally reached it... THE BREAKING POINT.
Half the house had been quarantined, the ceiling gone. Strangers were tromping all over the house, screaming at each other in Spanish, installing industrial strength blowers and dryers and humidifiers, which all drained into the kitchen sink, rendering the kitchen unusable. We'd lost our cable connection to the world, the dogs were going insane, as were my clients.
I'd had it. Seriously, had it. Lost the will to live.
I would have stuck my head in the oven, but it's electric. I can't catch a fucking break.
So, faced with such adversity, I did the only sensible thing.
I raided our emergency Vicodin stash.
We have one, really we do. It isn't like it's behind glass with a little hammer or anything, which is a good thing because we'd be constantly sweeping up broken glass.
About a year ago, the boyfriend threw out his back, and rather than subject himself to Doctors Without Borders here in Bako, he made a call to our doctor in LA, who promptly phoned in a prescription for Vicodin... 50 pills... with 5 refills.
Well, that should cure just about everything that ails you, and it does. I think I may just be able to get through the day.
Now, in any other town, 250 Vicodins should pretty much be enough for a lifetime, but when I raided the stash yesterday I saw we were nearly out. Call it the "Bako Effect."
I'll give him a call tomorrow and have it refilled. I'm sure he will.
He knows where we live and he's nothing if not compassionate.
