You know, I know my way around headaches. You might say I'm a connoisseur of headaches. I'm certainly good at them. In fact, I'm nothing if not a professional when it comes to headaches.
If they're big, I can deal with them. A big headache's like a large and loutish person advancing on you with evil intent - or, if you're particularly unlucky, like some sophisticated, well-dressed sadist of noble lineage and unlimited funds with which to cause you harm.
No matter, though, because that type of headache is an honest opponent. It's almost honorable in its all-but-stated desire to turn your brain into runny cottage cheese (or perhaps rennet.) in a frenzy of misfired neurons, a tangle of bloated or constricted capillaries, and transformation of your frontal lobes into friable asbestos. With a foe such as that, I can lay down an enfilade of painkillers and hot cloths for my eyes, ambush them and beat them to death with codeine, hot showers, and hot tea.
The headaches I can't deal with are the ones that hurt in a minor key, the ones that hang around like that last, unwanted guest, not saying much, not doing much, just denting your couch and not going home so you can get some sleep, damnit. That's what I have now.
Gah. Go away. Go the fuck away. Don't you have someplace else to be? Don't headaches have places to be, other than in my goddamn head?
Gosh, I love lj. It's just the best place for self-indulgent whinging, neh?