My eyes open, and I instantly realize that by doing that, I’ve made a grave, irreversible error in judgment.
The sun isn’t just shining into the master bedroom, it’s carrying out a targeted, hyper-specific assault against my retinas.
I lie completely frozen on my back, afraid that if I move my head even an inch, my brain will detach from my spinal cord, and rattle around in my head like a loose pebble.
"Oh, sweet mercy," I whisper to the ceiling. My voice sounds and even feels like sandpaper being dragged across dry gravel. “Oh, dear Lord.”
I’ve had chemo sessions that left me feeling more human than this. At least with the chemo recovery there was a clinical explanation for the misery; right now, this is pure, self-inflicted stupidity born of silver tequila and an 80s playlist.
Slowl
