Let's talk about my splitting headache...

Did you ever have one of those nights where it feels like someone has wrapped your head in aluminum foil and then beat on it with a pair of symphony-grade cymbals while you were riding in a truck filled with alarm clocks and firecrackers and crying babies as it rolled down the side of a mountain with the radio playing Slayer’s “Reign In Blood” album at full volume? You know what I’m talking about, right? Sort of when you take three extra-strength Tylenol and your headache laughs, laughs, laughs and swats them away like they so many Pez candies. Come back when you’ve got some goddamn Percocet, the headache taunts, maybe then we can negotiate. It’s the kind of headache where you just want to curl up in bed and moan gently and maybe have a Brazilian supermodel rub your neck with hot oils but you can’t do that because you don’t know any Brazilian supermodels and you’d too shy to ask if you did and it’s probably a good thing because then they’d see what a flaming crybaby you are and how long it’s been since you’ve cleaned your bathroom, and besides the pain is so bad all you can do is stare numbly at the evening news, hating the anchors with a violent passion and for no discernable reason. The sort of headache that jumps on you from out of nowhere and takes big nasty bites out of your brain, leaving you a useless and whiny wreck with glassy eyes and hurricane hair. If headaches were Soviet dictators, this one would be Stalin. If headaches were insects, this would be one of those two-foot long centipedes that you sometimes see on Nova. If headaches were rap songs, this one would be about what a really fucking bad headache I have...

That’s all I have to say tonight. I’ll be back tomorrow, if my skull doesn’t combust, Scanners-style, before then.