Organizing the closet with Alaska Thunderfuck and the Walrus

The good news is, my migraines are coming a lot less frequently now and I seem to be able to head them off at the pass for the most part, so long as I get enough sleep, don’t spaz out, there is no rain, no sharkweek, I’m not dehydrated, and don’t forget to eat.

That may sound simple, but there’s a very, very narrow margin for error. Every time I even browse LinkedIn to ponder a regular job, the throbbing starts. It’s still a real hair trigger.

So, I kinda knew setting my appointment at 10:30 AM this morning could potentially be tricky. I’ve been trying to wean myself off of Ambien for months now. It’s hard when you have a lifetime of insomnia and irregular sleeping patterns. I try to avoid taking it until I have to and I’ve whittled down pills into quarters so that hopefully I can keep on a semi-regular schedule.

Anyway, I went to bed at 1, set my alarm for 9 and figured that should be all right. Only, at 5, I woke up and there was just no making myself go back to sleep. And then it started to rain. My period shits indicated that lady time was upon me, and that yes, I was going to drive myself and there was construction at the hospital.

All I could really do was make sure I was hydrated and fed and hope for the best.

That worked out okay until after the appointment. The auras were coming and since we discussed my growing allergy to Imitrex and that I shouldn’t take it, the rescue was right out. I was going to have to ride out the storm.

I drove home with my vision rapidly narrowing (this is why I avoid driving when I can) but it wasn’t far, so I made it. I took a handful of Ibuprofen and half of an Ambien and figured, “Hopefully I can sleep this off. It’s going to dick over my sleeping patterns, but the pain, she is coming.”

I headed to bed thinking about my lunch with friends tomorrow and this is where things get tricky.

Sometimes on Ambien, I don’t remember going to bed specifically. Who does, really, but I remember thinking about my clothes and how I have nice things but the maid sort of stashes them away and that I should be better organized.

Alaska Thunderfuck then showed up and offered to help me organize my closet. “Gurl,” she said, her voice low and accusing, then high and cutesy, “How do you find anything?”

“I don’t even want most of this. I have a big box downstairs where I was going to throw the shit I don’t want into.”

She clapped, her smile winning, her eyes black, nails clicking. “Go get it let’s do this.”

“Really?”

“Yaaaaas! Let’s do this nooooow.” She batted her lashes, her voice low, lips curling and puckering.

So I get the box and we’re going through my things. “This? This you’ll never wear.” Into the box. “What is this? Polyester? Gurl.” Into the box.

“Oh, now this is cute!” She points, nails long, fingers spread. “Wear this tomorrow.”

I set it aside.

Alaska helps me arrange by season and then says, “Gurl! Where are all your hangers?”

I retrieve some from another closet.

“You have a lot of scarves! I love it!” She twirls them before I hook them over the rod in the closet.

“Now these,” she pats her narrow hand on a stack of novelty t-shirts, “We can just fold and put in the dresser.”

I’m reorganizing the order of my dresses. She leans in over me, admiring my work. “We need to do mine next. It’s a mess.”

I stare at my purple dress and think about how far away Hollywood is and I wonder how I’m going to get there and then it occurs to me that I don’t know Alaska Thunderfuck and I wonder why she’s in my home.