I've been sick as of late and invariably this means an upsurge of various medicines stockpiled in the apartment. An unopened box of Day Quil was left on the kitchen counter. Stupid, stupid, stupid me. This seemingly unattractive item, left in a high place, was not under lock and key and therefore open game. Stupid, stupid, stupid me. I came home to small pieces of white paper packaging and large, glistening, orange pills strewn across the living room floor. Scream I did. The same as when he ate the bottle of adderall, the bottle of Lithium, his OWN bottle of valium, my sister's bag of weed, and that mysterious pack of menthol cigarrettes. Although, luckily, none of which were ingested in one sitting. I spent a good ten to fifteen panicked minutes hunting down and counting every single pill in sight. I think... I think he only ate three...
How many brushes does it take for EBD to get to the center of her seemingly unending karmic debt to Weegee? The world may never know. (hint: waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay more than three). 
