I had possibly the worst migraine of my life two nights ago. I have had migraines off and on for years now, and since I’m a tough chick with a high pain threshold they usually don’t slow me down too much, but this bad boy stopped me dead in my tracks.

It started in the early afternoon while I was driving home from a doctor’s appointment. It was mild and I was trying to tackle my six page to do list, so I pretty much ignored the signs of impending doom. I got home and started cleaning my kitchen and it got worse. I moved on to the bathroom and by the time I’d swished the toilet bowl I decided I’d better take something for this, so I cracked open the Maxxalt and proceeded to get absolutely no relief.

At this point it was time to start dinner, and as the surges of headache induced nausea hit me, I decided that tonight was a great night for Pizza Hut. I breezed through their online ordering system, ordered the usual, and saw that I could pick it up in twenty-five minutes. Not bad at all, and I got to leave the house and get away from my exceptionally noisy brood.

I arrived at Pizza Hut and chatted with my mother on the cell phone for about fifteen minutes until I knew that it was at least thirty-five minutes past my order time. It didn’t matter though, because when I went in, the guy at the counter said my pizzas had about eight more minutes. Because of the clanging, pounding and bright lights, I opted to wait in the calm of my car, and Pizza Guy promised that he would bring my order out when it was ready.

I tucked myself into my car and watched the store though the huge glass windows lining the entire side of the shop. I watched four pizzas come out of the over, none resembling pineapple and pepperoni or olives, mushrooms and Italian sausage. The fifth pizza looked promising, and happily, the sixth definitely had pineapple and red spots so I was thinking that I was good to go. My pizzas sat there for five minutes while Pizza Guy loaded up his delivery bag and headed out the door. I was certain that he would snag mine on his way through, but instead, he hopped into his car and drove away.

At this point, some punk pulled in next to me blaring hip hop as loudly as his speakers could pump sound. He then opened his car doors and chilled against the side of his ride, clogging up the air with his torturous beat. I briefly thought about swinging my car door open as hard as I could and knocking him out. My headache had reached true migraine proportions and people, there was no longer a nice bone in my body. While I contemplated this, the noisy bastard had the nerve to run into the shop, leaving his tunes blaring, and walk out with his order- pizzas that had come out of the oven AFTER the two that looked like mine had sat on the counter for about ten minutes. The nerve.

Sensing that all was not well in pizza land, I re-entered the store to inquire after my dinner, the dinner that I had chosen because it was the EASY way to do dinner. Apparently, my order was not yet ready. I went back to my car to stew.

I watched as bread sticks and cinnamon sticks came out from the oven. Pizza Guy #2 spritzed the butter onto the sticks. I had a brief moment of hope as he squirted marinara dipping sauce in a to go dish, and then he took a phone call. And then he took another phone call. And then he helped people at the counter, people who got food. I bore holes into his head with my laser beam stare of death, and he finally turned around and shook some cinnamon sugar onto my sticks. And then he walked away.

By this time, I was in so much pain that I didn’t have the strength to go in there and rip him a new one as I should have. I could only sit, horror struck and watch happy, peppy people pick up their pizzas while mine sat on the warmer. FINALLY, he returned to my sticks and with much aplomb and chatting with his manager he cut my sticks in half- AND WALKED AWAY! The manager, who you would think would be on my side, used this little break to tidy her work space, wiping up the marinara pot and straightening while she should have been composing an apology while putting my darn pizzas into a box and walking them out to me.

I could take it no longer. As I walked through the front door, I saw my sticks go into a box. Upon seeing me, they put my pizzas in a box. I was seething, but in a quiet way so as not to cause myself any more pain. Pizza Guy opens the pizza boxes so I can verify my order. Dude, I have been verifying my order for forty-five minutes. I want to scream, but lack the wherewithal to do so. He asks if I want peppers and cheese and I nod yes. He then chucks them all helter-skelter onto my pizzas. My look was saying, “Ya gonna put those in a bag, buddy so they don’t go flying when I drive home?” But he is clearly not versed in Angry Women Studies, being such an ignorant young whippersnapper, so he blithely moves onto the next task, and I walk out the door liquid enmity seeping out through my pores.

I am shaking from pain by the time I get into the drivers seat. I crack open the cinnamon sticks figuring I’ll snarf a few on the way home, seeing as how it is an hour past dinner and eating something might help with my headache. I cram one into my mouth doing forty mph and discover that this stick thing? It ain’t cooked. Not even close. It is nothing but gluey nastification. Damn you Pizza Guy!

I stumble into my house where Chris knows immediately that his wife is not a well woman. I snarf a few pieces of pizza, praying that they don’t come back up, and then briefly consider eating the cinnamon stick frosting straight from the can, but figure that a sugar rush really won’t help the head. Chris watches my insane puttering in the kitchen and insists that I go to bed before I die. I crawl into my bed and get my shirt halfway over my head, covering my face when I decide that that is FAR ENOUGH, and I collapse onto my pillow.

This is no ordinary pain. Usually I can beat my migraines by cutting out all noise and light and holding a bag of frozen vegetables to the base of my neck and over my eyes. This time nothing helped at all. It was the kind of pain that made rocking back and forth in the fetal position totally reasonable and not cliche. It was the kind of pain where even the tiny vibration of a well mannered fart was total agony. It was the kind of pain that made sleep impossible and made me totally rethink my recent swearing off of narcotics, after they didn’t go over so well with my wisdom teeth surgery. If I had any percocet left in the house, I would have downed the entire bottle and been grateful for death, but there was no relief. I finally begged Chris to come and rub my back to loosen me up a bit, which did help just enough to take the edge off so I could mercifully pass out.