When it comes to pain, I am delicate and whiney and about as far from the hard-gal, I can take anything, worldiness I fancy as a posture upon ocassion. Nope, I’m a deep down girly girl when it’s all ouchy and it hurts, it hurts.

I’ve had a headache for days. Days and days of wanting to whimper and whine. I almost have willed myself to tears, but then I got afraid that the act of crying would hurt. Oh, me, oh, my, it hurts, mommy, make it stop hurting.

Tynelol is fucking useless. Ibuprofen in horse doses is passable, but some pain lingers. And, when I max out on ibuprofen I start looking for the trickle of pink in my pee or whatever other harbinger of bleeding ulcerous guts. It’s kind of a coin toss on seeing how many Motrin I can stomache versus the brain splitting pain.

I ain’t never had migraines, and I don’t have that dark, gray, despairing cast I’ve seen on faces of migraine suffers. At least I don’t have that look yet, but the desparation is fucking mounting. Uncharacteristically, I finally broke down and called a health care provider. Now, because Marcus Welby, MD and other signs of a caring medical community are dead, I’m waiting by the phone to see if anyone will deign to see me.

Someone at work mentioned that someone else at work was getting headaches and met with a doctor. She was told that some people during periods of intense seismic activity experience headaches.

So, now, while not internally debating on how many ibuprofen tablets should I, could I, take right now, I’m imagining myself a sensitive. A diviningg rod. A delicately calibrated instrument. A canary in a coalmine. The frail and in-tune human able to feel slight breezes of activity, detecting the unseen proof that terra firma ain’t actually firma.