“Because destiny, John, is a fickle bitch.”

That’s a quote by one of my favorite television characters of all time: Benjamin Linus from Lost. While Ben is certainly entitled to his opinion, and while he’s certainly justified in saying it, I’ve come to the conclusion that the real reason Ben thinks destiny is fickle is because on the island they didn’t have Cymbalta.

There is actually a label on the bottle saying that it works best if taken at the same time every day. I take these sorts of warning fairly seriously, though I would have taken the label way more seriously if it said something like this:

You can certainly take Cymblata a few hours after you normally take it but be prepared to basically play side-effect roulette for the next few days. The choice is yours.

Cymbalta has a laundry list of side-effects, some of which are seemingly contradictory, such as excessive sleep and insomnia. Or constipation and diarrhea. At first I balked at this. Obviously in doing so I offended Jacob or the Dude in Black – or both – because I totally get it now. So had the label told me I’d be rolling the dice, side-effect-wise, by not taking it on time, I would have minded it more carefully.

Instead, this happened:

I forgot to take my pill on time on Saturday. Ashley and I had dinner with my family, after which, at my sister’s house, I dropped some hate in the thunderbox that would have sent the smoke monster crawling back to its home. What happened in that bathroom was unnatural, an abomination, an offense against all that is sacred and dainty and pure. And then, less than an hour later, I did it again. I tried to fight back whatever stench existed by liberally spraying Febreeze, but I think that one required turning the donkey wheel.

Later that night, back home, I fell asleep while Ashley was kissing me. So now along with taking away my pain, Cymblata has stolen my pride. Because now I’m the guy who passed out cold while his fiancé was trying to make out with him.

I woke up later than usual on Sunday, not even counting the move to Daylight Savings Time. That afternoon, after being awake a total of three hours I grew inexorably tired. We were at a birthday party and her whole family was there so I tried to struggle through it. Her brother even mentioned to me that I looked completely unimpressed with being there and I tried to tell him I was just tired, but I was almost too tired to say anything. So I left early.

Now let me make sure this is entirely clear. The eighty-year-old for whom the party was being held? He made it throughout just fine. Never even nodded off. Me? At less than half his age? I left after two hours to go home and nap for an hour and a half. Because I’m that awesome.

Even after my nap I could barely stay awake. I wanted to lie back down and sleep and sleep and sleep, but I worried that if I did I wouldn’t sleep at night. I busied myself with baking and reading and cats. I slept solidly through the night, but when my alarm went off this morning at 6:30 I couldn’t even open my eyes. It simply took too much energy. I fought and fought and stumbled out of bed, kicking one or maybe two cats in the process, and into the bathroom to take my pill. Once I realized that I did all of that without actually opening my eyes, I decided it was probably a good idea to call off work today.

So here I am. I’ve been awake for about two hours and I’m starting to get tired. I’m going to try to hold out until Ashley gets home so maybe we can nap together. But no matter what, you can believe I’ll be waking up to take my pill on time. Because Cymbalta is, indeed, a fickle bitch.


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