Something must be terribly wrong

I have been on Lupron for eight days now with nary an ill effect.

The relentless, pounding headache I have come to expect once my estrogen drops has not yet come a-knocking.  Instead having to fight off a marauding cloud of skull-pecking dura-drilling brain-eating crows several times a day, I am attended by a brace of cheerful bluebirds who sweetly chirp Steely Dan's "Josie" into my shell-pink ear.  They help me festoon my coiffure with strings of flawless pearls, or on more casual days fasten my bra hooks.

Instead of feeling spacey, forgetful, and unfocused, I remember exactly when your birthday is.  Do check your mailbox for the timely arrival of the one-of-a-kind handmade card I sent...correct postage affixed.

And instead of actively trying to make strangers' heads explode with the force of my glare — No, you have a nice day, asshole — my fantasies of mayhem are confined to idly wondering whether I'd get caught if I crept out under cover of night, drove to a local restaurant, shinnied up a pole, and removed one of the Gs from its marquee sign promising "6 NEW ANGUS BURGERS."

Go on.  Guess which G.

All I can figure is that the drug's not working.  Either my body has found a novel new way to fuck me six ways from CD 3, or some joker at the pharmacy secretly replaced my Lupron with Folger's Crystals.  I mean, how can it possibly be working?  I don't feel nearly shitty enough.

Posted by Julie at 07:25:55 PM in Minnesota nice, Notes from astride the stirrups

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Something must be terribly wrong

I have been on Lupron for eight days now with nary an ill effect.

The relentless, pounding headache I have come to expect once my estrogen drops has not yet come a-knocking.  Instead having to fight off a marauding cloud of skull-pecking dura-drilling brain-eating crows several times a day, I am attended by a brace of cheerful bluebirds who sweetly chirp Steely Dan's "Josie" into my shell-pink ear.  They help me festoon my coiffure with strings of flawless pearls, or on more casual days fasten my bra hooks.

Instead of feeling spacey, forgetful, and unfocused, I remember exactly when your birthday is.  Do check your mailbox for the timely arrival of the one-of-a-kind handmade card I sent...correct postage affixed.

And instead of actively trying to make strangers' heads explode with the force of my glare — No, you have a nice day, asshole — my fantasies of mayhem are confined to idly wondering whether I'd get caught if I crept out under cover of night, drove to a local restaurant, shinnied up a pole, and removed one of the Gs from its marquee sign promising "6 NEW ANGUS BURGERS."

Go on.  Guess which G.

All I can figure is that the drug's not working.  Either my body has found a novel new way to fuck me six ways from CD 3, or some joker at the pharmacy secretly replaced my Lupron with Folger's Crystals.  I mean, how can it possibly be working?  I don't feel nearly shitty enough.