My head was pounding. I rolled it from one side of the pillow to the other slowly, and then gripped my scalp with both hands, palms flush down, fingers digging into my forehead.
Nothing was working. And, swear to god, I didn’t even have a hangover.
I had gulped three ibuprofen at least an hour earlier. I drank a glass of water and ate a few handfuls of cereal.
The pressure felt unbearable. I pushed my torso off the bed and let the blood rush to my head. I sat up and almost threw up. I opened the windows. I tried to take a nap.
I decided to take more ibuprofen. And to be sure I wasn’t going to accidentally off myself in the process, I checked the back of the bottle.
The motherfucking ibuprofen I’d been taken for god knows how long had expired. In 2005.