We'll call ourselves The Migraines

Today I woke up in the wee hours with a splitting headache. It turns out the world is a lot more annoying when your head feels like it's about to pop off your spine, even if you take two Darvocet and pass out until a quarter to 11 in the morning.

For instance, your mother's verbal faux pas which are normally amusing turn into major aggravations. For instance, one doesn't "vote" for a team, one "roots" for a team, but Mom insists on asking during any sporting event—tennis, football, basketball, etc.—who we're voting for. Sadly, sports are not a democracy.

Instead of being the song of angels, the shrill single note of a two-year-old forcing his lung capacity through a recorder sounds more like a pubescent duck screaming for its life. And today. Today would be the day the dog decides to whine incessantly ALL DAY LONG PLEASE HELP ME at the space of nothingness between the couch and the fireplace. What does he think he sees? Even now he whines, the upper register of his despair threatening to shatter my glass skull.

And now I'm resorting to the metaphors of bad emo music.

Can't you just see it now? Me, hair dyed black with platinum highlights, blackened eyes and nude lips, too-tight skinny jeans and dramatic silver bangles, leaning over my bass guitar and whinging into the microphone about upper registers of despair and my glass skull shattering while a brooding band plays tortured minor chords. We'll be huge in Europe.