Dear Mr. Headache,
You have plagued me since elementary school, second grade to be exact.
At first it was because my vision was impaired. I got glasses. (I hated them). I wouldn't wear them. Fine, those headaches were a result of my vanity and I guess I deserved them. They still sucked. Whatever.
Then puberty struck. Every single month, you would bring me a headache on a silver platter to herald Aunt Flo's impending arrival. Not even Pamprin or Midol would make a dent on those suckers; Excedrin and a cold face mask became my best friends.
Fast forward to the 27 months I spent pregnant, subject to daily doses of hormones and headaches, WITHOUT being able to take anything stronger than a freakin' Tylenol. Those were some good times, I tell you.
Now, I have to admit, sometimes a headache comes well-deserved. Like after a night of ten pomegranate martinis, mixed with a few margaritas. Or anytime gin is involved. When I know a headache is inevitable and yet I still imbibe, I totally deserve the pain you inflict. Fine.
But now, really? My vision is perfect (thank you, the miracle that is Lasik). I am done with my pregnancy days. I can look at my calendar and see exactly when Aunt Flo is due to visit; I don't need you to prepare me. And I really don't drink all that often. My liver could use a break from all that Excedrin, and my children would love a mommy who isn't hushing them every five minutes because she "has a bad headache".
Please take this plea of mine into consideration. You have been with me for far too long; it's time to call this relationship quits.
Thanks so much,