Irony & Wine

I finally went to the doctor about my back.

I was right.

Well, the doctor thinks I’m right. I need an x-ray to make sure I haven’t slipped a disc, and then it’s straight onto physical therapy to treat a pinched nerve and severe back spasms. In the meantime, I’m loaded up on strong muscle relaxers and prescription strength ibuprofen — the advil was just not cutting it.

It’s ironic that the doctor prescribed the same pills I used to buy from a drug dealer in college to get high. My roommate and I would take two or three, chug half a bottle of wine, and roll around on our floor mumbling slurred laughter.

And now, here I am, my shoulder blades covered in Icy Hot, wrapped in a heating pad, waiting to schedule an x-ray. The Soma began to kick in during my hot bath, but I am far, far away from slurred laughter.