Nyquil and Ibuprofen

Recently, I have been sick as a dog.  I blame my sister, who went with me on a corndog trip and bit into my corndog before handing it to me… after she was horribly infirm the previous weekend.  But that is what I love about my sister: she has no concern for my health, and she blows burps into my face.  

I started to feel really achy while in my seven hour class on Wednesday. I had no clue what was wrong with me, so I pulled a stool up to my lab bench and just tried to look pitiful. If I looked pitiful enough, maybe one of my labmates would do my lab for me and just let me die in the corner. Unfortunately enough, nobody even batted an eye and so I had to finish my lab by myself and shuffle home. I obviously needed drugs to help me out in my situation. So I when I got into my room, I pulled out my stash of drugs.

I learned to squirrel away drugs from my grandmother. She had at least one pill of every type of drug you could ever dream of in a beige, carryon bag next to her bed. To be completely honest, I wouldn’t be surprised to if she had a kilo of cocaine in the medicine bag, just in case.. . .When I was about eleven, I told my grandma that I was sick, so she gave me a breathe-right strip and five assorted pills. I questioned nothing and downed them with a liter of Cherry Coke; the next thing I know, it was 22 hours later and I had no clue where I was. Was I roofied from my grandmother? Yes.

I have developed my stash over the last couple of years and have stored everything in an old shower bag from Boy Scouts. A few pain pills from roomies’ past surgeries, cold pills, ibuprofen, aspirin; the list goes on.  So I was sure I would find relief in my medicine bag, but when I looked in it, most of my pills had been ransacked. I was left with three ibuprofen, a Claritin, and a squirt of Chloraseptic. I wasn’t too surprised because every week, a roll of quarters will go missing from my bedroom—even if I hide them. I even resorted to hiding my quarters in a zipped pocket of my winter coat, but that did nothing to hamper the thief and I was, once again, quarter-less on laundry day.

 I took the three ibuprofen and prayed that my sickness would go away after Zumba. Obviously, Zumba only exasperated my illness and by the end my tonsils were the size of grapefruits, keeping any passage of spit down my throat. I felt nearly rabid, and my cotton mouth made it look like I was foaming at the mouth. I hurried home so I could just end the day, and then my fever started.

I tried to break my fever by cocooning myself in a series of comforters, and going to sleep. I woke up at five in the morning, not in my bedroom, but on my leather couch and in my skimpies. I must have became so hot in my bedroom that I sleepwalked out to the couch, stripped, and then tried to cool down against the frigid leather. I stayed on the couch until eight when my neighbor started to knock on my door. Due to my unwell state, I opened the door for him, even though I was wearing practically nothing.

After my neighbor had left, I knew I had to get a fever reducer before I wound up outside, naked, in the sprinklers. So I went to Smith’s, and before I paid for my drugs I had already taken 1000 mgs of ibuprofen. In my drug induced state, I managed to finish my 44 page term paper, make a presentation on celiac disease, and frolic in the park.

For my presentation, I decided to wear my really snazzy, golden shoes. The problem with these shoes is that they are two sizes too small and usually make me feel like my feet have been amputated, but with the drugs surging through my system, I felt nothing (I’m positive that if somebody decided to nail my feet to the floor, I wouldn’t feel a thing either). When I got home, I took off my shoes to find that my left foot was covered in blood. Apparently, my pinky toenail was a bit sharp on one end and sliced open the toe next to it. Did I feel it? Nope. I am invincible with ibuprofen.

When I was about ready to go to bed for the night, I broke out some Nyquil that I bought earlier in the day. Nyquil has been notorious for making me feel loopier than all-get-out, and usually only works to get me to fall asleep, which was all I really wanted. Once the effects started to set in, I looked out my window to see two girls from my ward with strange llama figurines. I waved the girls in who proceeded to talk about the llamas. The figurines were about three inches tall and were made from alpaca wool, but the bizarre thing about the figurines was that their faces looked as if they were modeled after a special-ed class.  It was a train wreck, and I could not look away. I reached my threshold of the figurines after one was revealed to have an extremely hair chest, and had to go to bed.

The second night of Nyquil, my friends Ashley and Nate came over to keep me company. We chatted and after an hour, the Nyquil began to set in. Ash, brilliant as she is, decided that this would be a great time for me to take out a hair wrap that she had that was starting to turn into a dreadlock, and so she had me try to unweave this thing from her hair, while drunk, with scissors and a pen. I, personally, would never have somebody under the influence of medication, try to cut something out of my hair without actually cutting all my hair off, but she had faith that I wouldn’t accidently scalp her. Halfway through, I could no longer differentiate what was thread and what was hair, so I sent her home with half of her hair wrap unraveled.

I woke up at six in the morning, and decided to walk out to the kitchen to grab something to drink. When I reached my cupboard, I looked back to find a woman passed out on my living room floor. Due to my morning grogginess, I just stood there and tried to remember if I let this woman in, and if so, why. It hit me that it was Andrew’s girlfriend after a good minute or so… and then I remembered that I was only in my underwear. I rushed back to bed, hoping she would be gone before I had to go to Zumba.

I got up a few hours later for Zumba, and when I went out to the front room, she was still passed out on the floor; unfortunately, when I saw her this time, she was a bit exposed. My friend Tal came over to go to Zumba with me and she opened the door to the stranger. Andrew, who had now moved out to the couch, woke up and introduced Tal to the woman. “Hey. I’m Andrew, and this is my girlfriend Sammy.” Tal looked puzzled at the sleeping woman, “Oh… Hi Sammy.” Sammy never said anything back, but I assume that her drooling was the best response she could muster in her comatose state.

Spring Roomates and Vagabonds.

It’s summer term. This means that my apartment complex’s rent is cut in half and people flock to Provo for cheap housing. Each summer, I seem to get the most bizarre roommates, and this summer is no exception. At the time, I have a roommate who is very similar to Napoleon Bonaparte, a roommate who is from Finland, a roommate from Southern California, and a roommate who smokes. 

The roommate who smokes (Andrew) thinks that if he bathes himself in enough Axe nobody will ever realize that he smokes a pack a day. Apparently he doesn’t realize that Axe does nothing to cover the odor of smoke, but makes it smell like prepubescent teens who smoke. When he first moved in he confided in me that he smoked, but don’t worry because he smokes before he goes to work and changes before he comes home, so I didn’t think that it would be too much of a problem.

Andrew started to come home smelling less like tobacco and more like marijuana, and he would laze about on the couch and play Guitar Hero while eating Cheetos. I immediately told him that he reeked of pot, but he denied it and continued on with his munchies.  After his batteries died in his guitar, he decided to follow me around the apartment and try to get a conversation out of me. I, being the ice queen that I am, would give him one word answers or would text through our conversation, hoping he would catch that I wasn’t in the mood for talking. He continued to follow me around until I left the apartment to sit in the park and read.

Andrew, thinking that I am his best friend, asked me to pick up his friend (Joel) who was just kicked out of his apartment… in Colorado. I have issues telling people, “no,” so I told him I would think about it and I would get back to him. Somehow, this translated to Andrew that I would pick his friend up from Colorado and I would be doing it over the weekend. He let me know that he would pay for all the gas and that he was going to pay me for driving, but I never had intentions to go. The thought of being trapped in the cab of my truck with this high, game junkie made me want to shoot myself. I finally lied to him and told him that my sister might need a ride out to Salt Lake and that she gets priority (which is true). Joel took a Greyhound down to Provo and crashed on my couch for the night. The moment he stepped through the doors, it was like a wave of smoke crashed into our apartment. I didn’t realize he would be staying on my couch because nobody said anything to me, but that is where he stayed. 

After four days of Joel living on my couch, the apartment became nearly opaque with smoke. He and Andrew would play Guitar Hero with each other for hours with all the blinds closed, then they would go out to smoke, and then come back to play more Guitar Hero. Joel bought groceries for himself and cleared a shelf for them in our cupboards, making himself right at home. I talked to the other roommates about how they felt about our couch vagabond, and they too didn’t know he would be staying on the couch. I asked Andrew how long Joel would be staying and his response was, “You know, like til’ the middle of June. We’re gonna move in together because I gotta get outta here. Ya know?” The middle of June. I am somewhat intimidated by Andrew because he is my size and a hundred pounds heavier, so I just went to my bedroom to figure out what was going to happen to our apartment.

Andrew must have caught on to the fact that I was dissatisfied, and so he decided to ask all the roommates individually if they had a problem with Joel staying. But he managed to ask in such a way that made it seem that he would kill anyone who said they did have a problem. The roommates told Andrew that they were ok with Joel, but not for a month, and then he came up to me. “You have a problem with Joel staying here?” He tried to seem as intimidating as possible, and something in me snapped. I released my inner sassy-black-woman and told him, “Yeah! Your friend can’t stay here for a month. Your friend can’t stay here for half a month. You know what? Your friend has until Friday to get off my couch before I report him as a stowaway. And when management comes to see that we have a stowaway and they smell the smoke in this apartment, they will kick you out for smoking. So I suggest that you help him find a place to stay.” I am surprised that I didn’t finish by snapping a Z.

That night, Andrew and Joel came into the apartment completely high at midnight and decided it was the perfect time to play Guitar Hero at full blast. I came out of my bedroom and asked them to turn down the volume because I had to get up early in the morning and went back to bed. Five minutes later they had switched from Guitar Hero to sound bites from Beavis and Butthead.  I don’t do well when people disturb my beauty sleep, so once again I asked them to keep it down. This time when I went back to my room, I could hear them talking bad about me and how I was such a stick in the mud. After nearly ripping my door off the hinges, I stormed out and chewed the potheads out so badly that they decided to leave the apartment. The moment I heard them at the bottom of the stairs, I immediately locked the door, locked the windows, drew the blinds, and went to bed with my car keys and laptop hidden in my bedroom (because I wouldn’t be surprised if they stole my truck and computer, and then careened off of a mountain in pot-induced ecstasy).

The next morning, I woke up early with the urge to blast Lady Gaga and do dishes as loud as possible. Joel tried to pretend that he wasn’t affected but I could see that he was awake and bothered. I then decided to open all the windows in the house to let as much sunshine as possible. Joel let out an exasperated groan, stuck his head inside of his pillow case, and tried desperately to plug out all the noise from the kitchen by sticking assorted nuts into his ears. I kept the music playing for three hours, and then took off for class.

Later that night, Joel decided to confront me about my morning shenanigans. Mostly, he wanted to find out if I had problems with him and if I was blasting music to get him out of the house. “I was up early, and the dishes needed to be done. I listen to music when I do dishes. Sorry if it disturbed you.” He told me he was leaving the next morning at five and I would never have to see him again.

The next morning, he was gone… but all of his stuff remained. None of his groceries had been packed up, and I knew he was going to sleep on our couch again, but he probably was going to sneak in and sleep on the couch and then leave before anyone got up. So when I got back home, I decided to open the blinds and stay in the front room until he came back. Around midnight, I saw him hiding behind a tree outside, waiting for me to go to bed. I stayed up, waiting, until he came in. He smoked about three cigarettes and walked around the block four times before he just came upstairs.

The vagabond is still here. If he is still on the couch tomorrow morning, then I will report him to the manager. But I also plan on shutting off the water when he goes to get into the shower, and playing opera music in the morning.