It Just Goes Against Migraine

Not tonight; I have a headache.

My mission, if I choose to accept it: Try to write something amusing, at least interesting, under the influence of a severe migraine.

I was at the always-entertaining physical therapy for my neck yesterday; one more session to go. And let this be a lesson to everyone: Never, never sew carelessly. The therapist, who is very nice and sympathetic (a cunning mask he uses to conceal his gleeful sadism), asked some of the usual questions:

"Oh! Have you had migraines before?"
"Yes."
"Bad ones?" I arch an eyebrow at him, which is pointless, as I'm laying on my stomach. I really, really want to ask him what constitutes a good migraine.
"Yes. Very bad."
"Oh. How long do they usually last? Mine quit after about two days."
"Lucky you. This one's going on six."
"Six days? Oh, that sucks."
"No, no.... in February, it'll be six years."
"Wait a minute; are you telling me you've had a migraine going on continuously for.... since...."
"2001."
"Right. Thanks. That's impossible."
"Oh, is it? Great! I feel much better!"
"You don't have to get sarcastic."
"Oh, don't I? So, when did you graduate from medical school?"
"Huh?"
"Well, obviously you'd have to be a doctor to know that it's impossible, wouldn't you?"
"It's not impossible?"
"It's just possible."
"Are you being sarcastic again?"
"Possibly."
"What are you saying?"
"I am saying that it's quite possible that it's not possible for you to know that it's impossible, and possibly that the possibility of it being positively possible, is extremely possible."

A silence descends between us; he is momentarily syntaxically stunned. And yes, I really say things like that. Unfortunately, he feels compelled to pursue the matter. I thoughtfully stroke the blade of the axe that I just happened to have brought in and hidden under the table, and wondered if a jury would let me off on the same excuse again.

"Why don't you see a doctor about that?" For a moment, I am the one who is stunned into speechlessness. As a matter of impartiality, I put the question to you: Isn't that just about the most idiotic thing he could possibly have said? It's way up there in second place, right behind "So, do severe migraines make you chronically, intensely orgasmic?"

"I'm seeing the doctor on November sixth; I will get my 'treatment' then."
"That's three weeks from now!"
"Nothing gets by you, does it?"
"Can't you get in sooner?"
"Yes. It's just that the insurance company won't authorize it until then. As usual, I'm Blue-Double-Crossed."
"So, in the meantime, you just have to suffer?"
"More or less. Sometimes, I share the suffering; delegate it to other people."
"That's impossible."
"Do NOT start that again! The readers will never buy it!"
"What?"
"NEVER MIND!!"

A pause. Not as long as a Pinter pause.

"How can you delegate pain to other people?"

Once again, my finger tests the edge of the blade of my axe. It's somewhat ragged, only sharp in a few places, and rusty. Just the way I like it. But, should I? Is it right? I wrack my brains, and send my synapses a-snapping to that part of my brain which holds The Eye Wit's Book of Etiquette or the Lack Thereof. I home in on the table used to calculate the "Stupid Question Event Horizon", come up a tad short, and decide to do the sensible thing and fudge the numbers.

"Tell you what: As soon as we're finished, take a break, we'll go out back, and I'll give you a cutting-edge description of exactly how it works."
"Do you think I'll get it, that it'll sink into my head?"
"Oh, it's quite possible. Quite possible."

Oh, yeah....