* * * *
Prednisone acts on me like truth serum. The brain/mouth connection short-circuits and I say things I later regret.
I text messaged my daughter rather than returning her call, because I can croak out only a few words before being overtaken by a spasm of coughing. Maybe she'll assume I'm not answering the phone because I'm drinking green beer with "my peeps" at the Wounded Minnow Saloon. Or not.
I fight the urge to argue with concerned friends who recognize that I'm not "myself." I don't fight the urge to snap at those who rub me the wrong way. My mouth becomes a flame thrower. They walk away, stunned.
It's really not that bad. I just want to stab leprechauns and torture people who write bad screenplays, rather than turning off the television and settling into a good book until I'm well enough to get out of bed.
And I know better than to try to write anything when I feel like a snapping turtle.