Monday: How many pieces of Nicorette gum does it take to bring on TMJ headache? Seven.
Tuesday: How many Xanax can you take and still be able to answer the door for Chinese food delivery? Four. The answer is four. But the dosage is .25, and I have a high tolerance, so don't judge.
Wednesday: How much money can you scrounge from your bag and car to pay for gas because the "fill me NOW" light is on and you can't find your credit card case? $12, $2 of which was in QUARTERS. And it was about a quarter of a tank's worth, but enough to get me where I was going. [insert generic note about bitch-ass government, bitch-ass oil companies, and bitch-ass gas prices here].
Thursday: How many hours can you go before feeling diabetic effects from skipping a dose because you forgot to call in your freaking refill? Almost five, but that was only because I had to make three trips to the pharmacy to complete the task.
Friday: How early would you want to go to bed last night to make you suspect blood sugar problems? 9:30. I haven't slept for nine hours straight since...I don't remember since when. The last thing I remember thinking before passing out was, "should I test? F*ck it, I don't care." But it probably wasn't a diabetic coma since I'm here writing this now. You know how I like to live on the edge.
But let me add that the rough week has been balanced out by good things, like teaching a class I really enjoyed, meeting one of my favorite authors of all time, another three lbs. off (probably due to heat), and a coming weekend that will be full of rest and relaxation. And reading Jay McInerney's new book. And watching Chinatown on DVD. And a BBQ at a friend's in the neighborhood (I do love summertime porch parties).
"You've got a nasty reputation, Mr. Gitts. I like that." (Noah Cross, Chinatown).