Lori Grimes is to my health as the iceberg was to the Titanic.

Really, Lori?

Really, Lori?

Imagine, if you will, the scene last night: the room was cold and dark, save for the starlight streaming in from the window and the blue-white ghostly glow of a television from the other room.  A broken man huddles in one corner, fingers scrabbling ineffectually at the rim of a toilet bowl, attempting to haul himself up in the event of a sudden oral evacuation, but his strength fails, leaving him panting in pain on the floor as the last few minutes of The Walking Dead play in the living room.  He pleads, silently, to whatever deity that might be listening, to just not let him throw up all over himself.

The gods were listening last night; the massive migraine I had been nursing all day may have blossomed into apocalyptic pain that evening, but through some miracle I managed to not experience my dinner through the wonders of reverse peristalsis, even if I did miss the dénouement of one of my favorite shows.  The 4,000 milligrams of Excedrin I had taken throughout the day had done little to placate the demon within my frontal lobe that was busy molesting the inner lining of my skull with what felt like a massive, barbed cat phallus, and I had finally caved in by asking my fiancée for one of her oxycodone tablets, thinking that once it kicked in, I might still be in pain, but at least I’d be too high to give a shit at that point.

Apparently homemade chili and hillbilly heroin were an ill-starred match, as I felt myself growing more and more nauseous as I watched Rick Gimes and his stupid, stupid wife stumble around in the dark and shoot things.   Worse yet, my migraine did not dissipate, and by the time Lori took off her shirt in the show’s final moments I muttered, “Shit,” heaved myself off the couch, and stumbled to the bathroom.

I could feel the constriction in my throat as I knelt to make an offering to my new god.  I leaned over, grasping the rim like a whaler grasping the gunwales of one of the Pequod‘s longboats, and prepared to commit to the Technicolor Yawn; I gagged a few times and spat, but there was nothing.  The urgency subsided, but my stomach was still roiling and my head still pounding, so I wrapped myself around the toilet for a good half-hour and just rode the waves of nausea and praying for deliverance.

The Devil's Drink

The Devil's Drink.

The whole experience made me remember my twenty-third birthday, which ended similarly, though with less searing pain.  To make a long story short, I emerged from a friend’s bathroom without the knowledge of where my pants were, then proceeded to stumble to his balcony and vomit profusely over the railing, painting the patio below with the remnants of about two gallons of drinks that had been mixed with blue Curaçao.

Ah, good times.

At any rate, I can’t exactly put my finger on the point of no return last evening, or what brought me back from the edge – I emerged sometime later and slumped in a chair by my fiancée’s computer desk, staring with incomprehension and confusion at Kevin Smith’s bloated face as he attempted to swallow a meth-gaunt Jason Mewes whole on cable television.  I felt like cowering behind the couch like my favorite doctor of journalism, raving about golf shoes and demanding room service bring me up some pure adrenochrome and a plump Samoan lawyer to do my bidding, but I lacked the energy to do much but whimper and pray for the embrace of death.

Either way, the nausea ended, and while my head was still ringing like one of those Salvation Army bells held by Michael J. Fox, I stumbled up to bed and slipped into unconsciousness.  This morning I awoke, headache-free, with the kind of intense, Evangelical gratitude all chronic migraine sufferers will know; I would have converted to Zoroastrianism on the spot if it would protect me from another night like the one I’d just been through.

I emerged into the sunlight this morning feeling like Edmond Dantès, though there was none to take revenge upon, unless the sight of Lori Grimes’ naked back had caused me to nearly toss my cookies last evening.  I have to admit, I was hoping that the zombies would get a meal out of her in the first fifteen minutes of The Walking Deadlast night, especially as the one walker literally tore its own face off to get at her through the hole in the windshield of her wrecked car.  Now that’s dedication.

Career changes can work.

Career changes can work.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I like Sarah Wayne Callies – I think she’s an excellent actor.  In fact I think that her portrayal of Lori is one of the best on the show.  I just want to kick her character off a very, very tall cliff into a ravine with zombie alligators at the bottom, kind of like in that climactic scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.  However, Mola Ram went on to have quite a lucrative career as Dhalsim from the Street Fighter series, so you really can’t say that it was a bad career move.


2 thoughts on “Lori Grimes is to my health as the iceberg was to the Titanic.

  1. Pingback: Writers make the worst audiences. « Amateur Professional

  2. Pingback: Hard Cider: proof God loves us and wants us to be happy. « Amateur Professional

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