We're quite used to them lining up like little soldiers across the kitchen counter, bedside table, and occasionally, in a wounded heap next to my stupored form rumpled about the couch. I'm the resident druggie...this must be a shock to Nick, who professed undyingly in January that he never gets sick...ever. In fact, when asked, he was able to name neither his medical clinic nor his physician. Must be frigging nice.

My over-the-counter sleep aids live in the drawer next to Nick's pillow, and my vitamins in the cupboard next to the salad plates. The Titan-sized bottles of Ibuprofen and Tylenol suck it in to fit next to the "rocks glasses" (as I've been instructed they are to be called), and the stomach remedies, which I hopefully won't need any longer, are tucked away serenely beneath the bathroom vanity. The prescribed medications kind of flirt about the place, buddying up with this array of dosing or that.

The wussy antihistamine I'm taking is more of an act of "at least I'm doing something" and stays with the vitamins that I take shortly after greeting the day. The sleep aid prescribed to me in April finds it homey enough within the confines of my jewelry armoire...and the painkillers rub elbows with the notepads, post-it notes, pens, menus, bills, spare keys, batteries, and whatever else migrates to the "everything drawer". C'mon, we all have one...just admit it.

Once empty, naturally, a shutterbug such as myself finds them as fodder for photos. And, once empty, I know it's only a matter of time before a Walgreen's pharmacist is asking in conclusion, "Do you have any questions regarding this medication?" I have the genes of the Gods, I tell you! I'm used to being a druggie...I'm used to living with druggies. Growing up, we dedicated an entire breadbox to our collection of medications. We kept it in the central nervous system of the house—the kitchen...not to be confused with the 3-door bathroom cabinet. One learned early on to use caution when opening any of those shiny, mirrored doors...you never knew when the next bottle of saline solution, bacitracin ointment, or calamine lotion would take it's revenge on the cramped living quarters by launching itself in propulsion toward your very head.

My aunts have a drug drawer in their kitchen...an actual drawer dedicated to the dosing and administering of supplements, vitamins, prescriptions, and narcotics over the counter remedies. To waylay the head-launching of my childhood home, they've designated a cupboard as drug overflow. I feel like we're all a version of Rudy from The Cosby Show...but instead of cheering "King me! King me! King me!" we're growling "Pill Me! Pill Me! Pill Me!" while clenching the medical professional's collar and holding their person but inches away from our rabid mentalities. You must understand that we've had a long haul of going to the doctor, misdiagnosises, and, thus, ineffective solutions to what ails. The patience tends to run a bit thin at times...and you're just so gosh darn sick of being sick!

But back to me and my personal assortment of substance use—I'm sure Nick isn't used to this surplus of chemical engineering that we of my bloodline find ourselves forced to initiate. When I find a way to absorb his knack for good health as swimmingly as I have his knack for leaving his shoes everywhere, we'll be able to expel the yellow-brown vermin from our nooks, crannies, and everything-drawers. Until then, I hear that Rx bottles make for very pleasant conversationalists, or, leastwise, an over-drugged psycho's blog-material.