It hearkens back to a conversation two years stale, an unfunny joke made on the fly that has echoed through the years for no apparent reason:

What do you want to do today?
I don't know, my head kind of hurts...
Need a Vicodin?
Um, I'm good.

Vicodin on the counter is like money in the pocket. One is suddenly overwhelmed with the notion that if she does not use it all immediately, she will die.

My ride is here. I might smuggle some Vicodin anyway. Because you know what? My ass still hurts. And I kind of have a headache.

ink :: graphite