NyQuil NyQuil NyQuil, we love you, you giant fucking Q*

I still feel like a buzzards butt that fell off and got sprayed on by a bunch of skunks**, so I went to the walk-in clinic this morning to procure my get-out-of-jail-free card.

"I pretty much just need a note that says I can go home and suffer in peace instead of dragging my diseased carcass into work," I told the doctor.

"Doctors don't just write notes," she admonished me. "We can help, too, you know!"

"Um...I'm pretty sure it's just a head cold. Last time I checked, you actually couldn't," I mumbled, but she just tut-tutted and wrote me a prescription for penicillin and a corticosteroid nasal spray. One of which is totally useless for a head cold and the other was forty-three dollars and also, totally useless.

"Great, thanks!" I said brightly, pocketing it. "Can I have my note now?"

So now I'm at home suffering in peace, like I asked in the first place. Anybody need a prescription for penicillin?


*Name that tune.

**Clearly I have not an original thought in my head today, mostly because it's filled with phlegm. Name that tune 2.