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“Eww bitter, not nice” I’d muttered as the medicine ran down the back of my throat. I’d realized my mistake after three long hard sniffs in each nostril – this wasn’t the saline spray (which sat unopened on the table). I’d just squirted a ton of the prescription version (morning use only) up my snoozle, at 11.45 pm…well past bedtime.
I thought back to the allergist visit that afternoon. Though enlightening, it wasn’t helpful

“No mo’ cheese” I’d kept hearing from the Pakistani doctor. “No good, worst allergen out of all foodstuffs!” I’d mumbled back disbelievingly. “But what will I do with my red wine? I need my cheese…that’s just barbaric!” More whining on my end. The doctor stared, unimpressed with my priorities, “No more cheese for you…God has been good to you so far with this!” Pointing a skinny finger in my direction, he slowly tapped out the syllables, head bobbing as he stated a final time “No. More. Cheese. For. You!” Assuming, obviously, that I was denser than he’d first thought. Clearly, this man didn’t understand the heft of his statement, and that did not bode well for our relationship.
Two hours later, after inadvertently dosing myself with horrible drugs, I sat bolt upright in bed. My brain, still tangled in a bizarrely lucid web of a nightmare, skittered about roughly along these lines…

“Oh hell yeah! That shit is fo’ real girlfrien’! “My dream state companion, Leslie Jones – a woman, who incidentally, I’d love to share a bottle of bourbon with, was leaning over my shoulder – spital pinging off the side of my neck. We stared down at the paper cup, a cup that I was holding on my lap, containing a huge, brown hairy spider. Now, it wasn’t Leslie Jones leaning over my shoulder that was freaky, nor the spider per se… but that the creature was wearing a pink pussy hat.

That’s what really threw me…

The night progressed and I’m still wrapped in this wacky web of a dream… Except, now its taking on a Monty Python – esque dimension. I’m sleeping with one eye shut and the other open, watching my pink pussy-hatted wearing spider scrambling toward me over my pillow. It takes a while, but each time I peek open an eyelid, she’s charged closer, only to freeze in place when spotted… It was on the very last peek, at the very last moment, that my spider, a mere inch from my nose, in a deep melodious voice, said: “How you doin’?” Ala Wendy Williams.

Roughly 2.5 hours crept past, and beyond grumpy after intermittent packages of sleep, I dragged myself out of bed. “Coffee baby?” Asked Tom, annoyingly pleasant. “Want some eggs? Scrambled?” Muttering “Please… oh God yes please”, through (admittedly) lovely, clear nasal passages, “Oh… extra cheese on the eggs ok?”

Sod the cheese ban, sod the chemically nasal spray, and sod Wendy. She’d better find someone else to hang with tonight.

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