Don't Drug-Text me

Today, my beloved Ligie had to go have an MRI. My sweetie has a little anxiety over closed spaces (such as airplanes...), so about three Xanax made their way into her system before she had to go into the cage. Her appointment was at 3:30, so by the time I got out of class at 5pm, they had firmly begun to knock her unconscious.

As is my usual plan of action, I was going to stop by Starbucks on the way home, so I called her to see if she wanted anything. The first phone call went unanswered, the second was answered by silence, and the third went to voicemail. At this point I just wanted to cover my butt in case she was awake when I got home with one coffee in hand, so I sent her a text. No answer, so one coffee it was.

When I finally arrived, my sweetie was laying on top of the bed, completely out cold. I'll leave out the part about the drool-covered pillow, so that we can all pretend that never happened.

Oops.

Alice was laying on top of her, cleaning her hair, so I grabbed Barb's cell phone to take a video of it, to show her later. It was open, and on it was the following message, mid-composition:

"Ohhkthcmds ilwj"

That was her response to me. My beloved passed out as she was writing it. In hindsight, I should be grateful, because while I speak drugged-Ligie, drugged-texting-Ligie is a little bit of a stretch. I have a feeling that had I given that to a barista, Barb would have got a half-caf-double-shot-three-pump-sugar-free-mocha-chip-latte. Hold the whip.