Dear doctor,
Thank you for finally making me feel better, but there’s a little problem with the treatment plan you’ve prescribed.

You see, sir, I’m pretty much high all the time. Somewhere along the way, the combination of pills you gave me to make me not have seizures and stuff turned me into a 15-year-old Halo player with the munchies.

While this was totally hilarious for, like, a week, being perma-baked is way less fun than I ever would have imagined. I giggle a lot. And fall on things. And creep on my coworkers. Which is more fun when you do it on purpose. I think my body is eventually supposed to adjust to this, but I’m not sure how much longer I can live in this world that vaguely resembles Oz.

Flyin’ high along the yellow brick road,

P.S. Did that make any sense? I have no idea what I just wrote. As previously mentioned, I’m pretty hopped up. Like whoa.

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