Medicated. I probably should be.

Today a co-worker told me about how a prescribed medication gave her nasty side effects, so, she took it back to the pharmacist and asked them to dispose of it.

(This is how two 38-year-old broads in the same office entertain each other. With stories of how our bodies are falling apart.)

This confused me. “Why would you do that?”

I am a prescription medication hoarder, myself. Between my various ailments, I am prescribed medication on an alarmingly regular basis. I am not so reliable about taking it. I decide I’m feeling okay after all…so I fill the prescription, but don’t take the pills. Or I take a couple of days’ worth and decide the side-effects are outweighing any benefit it’s providing me.

Then I just…stash it away. I have a nice little collection of anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxants, and painkillers. Some antibiotics. I don’t like to take them, but I do like to keep them. I’m not sure why I do this; maybe to save myself a step the next time I have the same problem, or maybe they might be of use when the Zombie Apocalypse hits. You know, to treat survivors or trade for ammo.

I told my co-worker this.

“Oh, I used to do that, too,” she said. “But then someone told me that kids these days are getting their kicks off of mixing up prescription meds, experimenting with cooking them and shit. And you know I have teenage boys, so…”


Okay, so, if the Zombie Apocalypse hasn’t arrived before my kid is, say, 12? I’ll get rid of them.

But if it does, my fortified house is the party fortified house!