You have a headache today and you don’t know why. It might be that you slept badly on your misshapen pillow, the crushed contents giving your hard human head little cushioning, your blanket slipping down past your ankles, tugging your pyjama bottoms with it, and your teddy bear slipped far out of your reach. That sounds like a very bad night indeed.
Then perhaps it is because you didn’t drink much water today.
“Water is unnecessary,” you snort, ignoring the fact that much of your body is made of water and water is the source of much of the Earth’s sustenance, and that three days without water will certainly kill you. But you don’t care, you’ll drink urine if you have to! I then remind you that your urine contains water. You are irritated. You thought urine was a fairly unique substance and were rather enjoying its special taste before I ruined it for you.
“Water is terribly necessary,” I reiterate.
“The heck it is!” you curse unforgivably. “Besides,” you say, more soothingly because you are aware of how deeply you’ve hurt my feelings, “I drank coffee and cola and urine, I should be fine. That’s plenty of water right there!”
I will disregard the urine for now, but I would be remiss not to inform you that coffee and cola are both dehydrating fluids, that not only require you to drink double the amount of water to make up for them, but also strip calcium from your body. Did you not know that?
“Alls I know is they taste good and osteoporosis is a future problem,” you say smugly. You have seen your future self, once, in a dream that was similar to a movie you watched the night before, and you did not like that jerk and you have been secretly working to smite her/him ever since. Next time we talk and you tell me this out loud, I will tell you how ridiculously stupid that is.
But perhaps it isn’t the bad sleep or the lack of hydration, perhaps it is the loud music your next door neighbour has been playing.
“This is why I should live in the woods!” you scream, wishing desperately to be back in your cabin in the woods where your many neighbours are much quieter and more considerate people. “Even worse,” you snarl at me, downing another glass of suspicious yellow liquid, “That fool plays the worst music of all time! It is [your most hated genre/band/musician/instrument]. I want to break through the walls like Terminator and TERMINATE HIM/HER!”
I suggest a strongly-worded note should suffice, but you are already headed to pick up a weapon. Fortunately for your hotheadedness, your headache is so bad that the room spins when you move, and you sit back down.
It might not be an inconsiderate neighbour. It might be a team of inconsiderate construction workers, doing construction at the wrong time of day. The wrong time of day is defined as any time you are around. You gaze forlornly at your arsenal of weapons and sulk because you have to be a rational, empathetic, reasonable human being. Going on a killing spree is not appropriate in this case, and you realize this gloomily. You shove your head under your crushed, uncomfortable pillow.
Or perhaps it is a stress headache. Are you stressed? Do you want to talk about it? I put on my therapist’s hat once more. I stole it from my therapist when she was telling me about kleptomania or something or other.
I extend to you two Advils and lay you down on a softer pillow. You look up at me and think, “What a beautiful, handsome god of a being, so comforting and weird.” I know, I am quite perfect. I set you down lovingly, tuck you in, and forget to call work/school/your guardian/significant other to let them know you are unavailable but accounted for for the day. I also take the liberty of yelling at your neighbour on my way out. My loud, angry screams punctuate the throbbing of your head.
You’re welcome, my dear. Feel better soon!
You: A Story In Second-Person 