PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: First things first: to the death!
WESTLEY: No. To the pain.
PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: I don't think I'm quite familiar with that phrase.
WESTLEY: I'll explain, and I'll use small words so that you'll be sure to understand, you warthog-faced buffoon.
PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: That may be the first time in my life a man has dared insult me.
WESTLEY: It won't be the last. "To the pain" means the first thing you will lose will be your feet below the ankles. Then your hands at the wrists. Next your nose.
PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: And then my tongue I suppose. I killed you too quickly the last time, a mistake I don't mean to duplicate tonight.
WESTLEY: I wasn't finished. The next thing you will lose will be your left eye, followed by your right.
PRINCE HUMPERDINCK: And then my ears. I understand, let's get on with it.
WESTLEY: Wrong! Your ears you keep, and I'll tell you why. So that every shriek of every child at seeing your hideousness will be yours to cherish. Every babe that weeps at your approach, every woman who cries out, "Dear God! What is that thing?" will echo in your perfect ears. That is what "to the pain" means. It means I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever.
So, "to the death" is less than "to the pain," and by extension, both are less than "to the discomfort." (Trust me on this.)
Various neurological issues -- brought about officially and legitimately, with a Rx pad and everything -- rendered me useless over the past week, including the Thanksgiving holidays. Want to know what I wasn't so thankful for? Drug commercials that casually list "general muscle discomfort" as a possible side effect. But there it is, sandwiched nicely between "shortness of breath" and "frequent trips to the bathroom." I can deal with those; I've spent a good chunk of my life being embarrassed or of limited availability.
But people really should heed any warning of discomfort; it's worse than pain, because it's completely unmanageable. I've been restless and exhausted at the same time for the past several days, and it's an agonizing combo. My attention span was shot. I couldn't work on the computer or watch television for more than a few minutes at a time. (Prime example: I got through an otherwise entertaining episode of House in FIVE installments. Without ads, off the DVR.) I have to eat standing up. And forget about ordinary tasks like driving, reading, or carrying on a conversation.
Unfortunately, the aforementioned activities are about 95 percent of what I do while I'm awake. Which leaves, like, cleaning. So I employed a "fight fire with fire" mentality and overmedicated myself to allow for sleep (about 16 hours per day), but now I'm trying to undermedicate -- nothing stronger than Tylenol PM -- in an effort of personal restoration. My muscles are beginning to relax, but my brain is still a bit fried. That I write this past 3 on a Saturday night (check the posting time) lets you know how I'm doing thus far.
I won't say more, as this personal blog rarely gets this personal.