“I can’t believe you went to work after the weekend we all just had. I’ve phoned in sick for you for less,” I said to R. Indeed it had only been three days since I phoned his place of work to tell them R. was too unwell to get out of bed. I didn’t mention that he was well enough to take our hangovers to a driving range so that he could badger people on the first tee with his mighty one wood.
“Nah, I was fine. In fact I felt great. That could’ve been the prozac though,” said R. “do you want some?”
“Er. What are they like?”
“Well. Sort of a bit speedy. Very like weak pills. They keep you chipper though. As long as you don’t take more than five. Oh, and you might not be able to sleep very well.”
“What happens if you take five then?”
“Your brain turns to mush and you can’t think. But you don’t feel bad about it.”
This conversation was going round and round in my head last night when I was lying on my bed staring intently though not intentionally at the back of my eyelids, unable to sleep. I didn’t feel bad about my insomnia though.