By fart, the most noticeable effect I get from taking my unprescribed narcolepsy medication is I get so THIRSTY. I drink and I piss and I piss and I drink, I piss in my drink and I drink my piss drink, but I'm still thirsty. I could drink a horse.

It's like a great philosopher once said: "When you're thirsty, you're almost Friday - but when you're hungry, you're a landlocked country."
Maybe the lack of ocean is why you were thirsty to begin with – it's all a loop, cyclical.

It's been approximately, as of writing this, 13 hours since I took my 2022-expired Modafinil that I bought on the dark web some years ago in exchange for what was £86 of Bitcoin, and probably £3000 worth in todays money. That's what I get for being a sucka and participating in commerce like a woman. I knew I should have hoarded all my wealth in the form of refined materials stacked on pallets or stored in drums.

But I took the pills. I forgot I took the pills. I always forget I took the pills. It was only after spending about 6 hours in a state of anxiety, jittering, restless, and having my lips crack and bleed that I realised what I had done. Every time, it happens every time, how can I be so stupid to forget? I made myself a healing broth (oxo cube in a mug, hot water - recipe coming soon) but nothing is quenching it. I just know for sure this dehydration is going to lead to sharp urine tomorrow when I get those little crystals that sting as they leave. I hate those, but what can a man do but suffer through the consequences of his own actions?

Unfortunately for me, I don't have any drugs more fun than this. I have nothing else to consume to abate the sad state of life and times we live in. Sure, I would love some of that colombian munting powder. I feel it would cure me. But I am not a man of wealth, I'm not even just poor, I'm simply rocking it in the destitution plane drinking cartons of expired custard and hot sauce for sustenance. One does what he must.