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Once my dose of Chantix was adjusted, I easily adjusted to the gas and nausea. I'm pretty gassy to begin with, even by farm standards, and I found that as long as I took my dose on top of some food I could control the nausea. The hardest part, I found, was remembering my regular doses. I now have a new respect for my girlfriends that have been on birth control, and the rigorous discipline with which they conduct their dosing. Trust me, if the Chantix I'd been taking had actually been birth control, I'd be like the Octo-Mom right now. I'd be like 1930's Ireland, folks. Nuff said.  "Too few and too white to be Madonna's" So anyway, on to the dreams. I'll never be able to shake the feeling I had the first time a whole string of them hit me and I was convinced they were real. I woke up in a cold sweat, completely unaware that I'd been dreaming, and convinced that I'd just been eaten by a giant rainbow-colored moth that, minutes before, had been casually conversing with me in my kitchen about whether or not SportsCenter on ESPN had jumped the shark. This was the finale in a string of alternately exhilarating and terrifying dreams that I'd been experiencing throughout the night. I was a bit too focused on calculating my odds of survival in a rainbow moth stomach to grab a notepad and document the whole night, but I remember that it went something like this: running, falling, fucked-up shit, running again, more fucked-up shit but this time with midgets and werewolves, flying, falling, running, and Estelle Getty.  "Get out of my dreams, and into my car." When I was done humping the eldest Golden Girl, I went to the kitchen of my imagination for a sandwich, where I ran into Mr. Moth and well, you know the rest. | ||||||||||||
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