Nyquil Quotes

The essence of positioning is sacrifice. You must be willing to give up something in order to establish that unique position. Nyquil,

Somewhere in the gluey Nyquil haze, the memory came of standing in the lake with Lise the week before, stomping their feet in the emerald thick of the water. On the shoreline were Skye’s hard-jeaned boys with their disappearing tattoos. They whistled at Lise, fingers hooked in their mouths. Let’s do it, Lise whispered in her ear, her tongue showing between her teeth. Let’s go in. When she woke up, in the purple of four a.m., she could still hear Lise’s voice in her ear, high as a little girl’s. We went behind those tall bushes. He took my tights off first. It was so cold, but his hands—

I’m on a steady diet of Subway, red wine and NyQuil.

I want you to open that cabinet over the sink slowly,” Officer Spence ordered. “And then back away. No false moves, Cooney!” Mrs. Cooney went and opened the cabinet over the sink. There were some bandages in there and some bottles of aspirin. “Aha!” Officer Spence hollered. “Aspirin! Can you get that stuff in a drugstore?” “Well, yes, of course,” Mrs. Cooney said. “Just as I suspected!” Officer Spence shouted. “You’re a drug dealer!” “WHAT?!” “You’re handing out drugs to innocent children!” Officer Spence yelled as he wheeled in a portable jail cell. “You should be ashamed of yourself. How do you sleep at night?” “I take NyQuil,” Mrs. Cooney said.

By my tenth glass of wine I started to wonder whether there was something wrong with my palate. Everyone else was marking the wine list with notes like “Pleasant finish. Robust spices.” Meanwhile, I was doodling pictures of vampiric cougars. Then I noticed people staring at my doodles, and so I started writing notes next to the wine. Things like “Tastes of NyQuil, but in a good way,” and “This one will get you all the way fucked up.” “I can’t feel my feet anymore.” “Did I leave the garage door open? I wonder whether the cat is on fire. I should probably stop drinking now.” Everyone else there had a sophisticated palate. I had one that needed therapy, and possibly an intervention.

You want to stay here and sleep your life away? That's it?" "If you knew what would make you happy, wouldn't you do it?" I asked her. "See, you do want to be happy. Then why did you tell me that being happy is dumb?" she asked. "You said that to me more than once." "Let me be dumb," I said, glugging the NyQuil. "You go be smart and tell me how great it is. I'll be here, hibernating." Reva rolled her eyes. "It's natural," I told her. "People used to hibernate all the time." "People never hibernated. Where are you getting this?" She could look really pathetic when she was outraged. She got up and stood there holding her stupid knockoff Kate Spade bag or whatever it was, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and crowned with a useless, plastic, tortoiseshell headband. She was always getting her hair blown out, her eyebrows waxed into thin, arched, parentheses, her fingernails painted various shades of pink and purple, as though all of this made her a wonderful person. "It's not up for discussion, Reva. This is what I'm doing. If you can't accept it, then you don't have to.

Life is bullshit. Consider your life for a moment. Think about all those little rituals that sustain you throughout your day-from the moment you wake up until that last, lonely midnight hour when you guzzle that gallon of NyQuil to drown out that persistent voice in you head. The one that whispers you should give up, give in, tomorrow won't be any better than today.

AS SUMMER DWINDLED, my sleep got thin and empty, like a room with white walls and tepid air-conditioning. If I dreamt at all, I dreamt that I was lying in bed. It felt superficial, even boring at times. I’d take a few extra Risperdal and Ambien when I got antsy, thinking about my past. I tried not to think of Trevor. I deleted Reva’s messages without listening to them. I watched Air Force One twelve times on mute. I tried to put everything out of my mind. Valium helped. Ativan helped. Chewable melatonin and Benadryl and NyQuil and Lunesta and temazepam helped.

I’m tired, Reva,” I said, peeling the wrapper off the cap of a bottle of NyQuil. “Oh, come on.” “You go without me.” “You want to stay here and sleep your life away? That’s it?” “If you knew what would make you happy, wouldn’t you do it?” I asked her. “See, you do want to be happy. Then why did you tell me that being happy is dumb?” she asked. “You’ve said that to me more than once.” “Let me be dumb,” I said, glugging the NyQuil. “You go be smart and tell me how great it is. I’ll be here, hibernating.” Reva rolled her eyes. “It’s natural,” I told her. “People used to hibernate all the time.” “People never hibernated. Where are you getting this?

AS SUMMER DWINDLED, my sleep got thin and empty, like a room with white walls and tepid air-conditioning. If I dreamt at all, I dreamt that I was lying in bed. It felt superficial, even boring at times. I’d take a few extra Risperdal and Ambien when I got antsy, thinking about my past. I tried not to think of Trevor. I deleted Reva’s messages without listening to them. I watched Air Force One twelve times on mute. I tried to put everything out of my mind. Valium helped. Ativan helped. Chewable melatonin and Benadryl and NyQuil and Lunesta and temazepam helped. My visit to Dr. Tuttle in September was also banal. Besides the sweltering heat I suffered walking from my building into a cab, and from the cab into Dr. Tuttle’s office, I felt almost nothing. I wasn’t anxious or despondent or resentful or terrified. “How are you feeling?” I stood and pondered the question for five minutes while Dr. Tuttle went around her office turning on an arsenal of fans, all the same make and model, two installed on the radiator under the windows, one on her desk, and two in the corners of the room on the floor. She was impressively nimble. She no longer wore the neck brace. “I’m fine, I think,” I yelled blandly over the roaring hum.

place. Stuff like that didn’t happen. Except in dreams. In some bizarre Nyquil hallucination with images coated in thick green syrup.

He was drunk, and even NyQuil make a man brave if he drink enough of it.

And while we’re at it, you may have guessed that I also love Ambien; NyQuil (none of this melatonin shit); wine; tequila; piña coladas; margaritas (vodka is for people who want to punish themselves); CBD gummies (I’m solely there for the gummy); a rogue pill a friend has left over after a surgery; half-and-half with a splash of coffee, two Splenda, and three pumps of peppermint; candy; Cinnabon; Wetzel’s Pretzels; Annie’s Pretzels; furry slippers and fuzzy robes; trashy magazines; garbage television; unconfirmed gossip; spas; lasers; luxury; healers of all stripes; extravagant gifts; surprise parties; choreographed dances with friends at any age; karaoke; musicals; Christmas decorations that include a “table tree;” naps; joining gyms I will never go to; hiring trainers I pay up front and then never go to; starting radical diets I never follow through on . . . I overspend, I overeat, I overdo.

It tastes like the lovechild of a coconut and a bottle of Nyquil.

And while we’re at it, you may have guessed that I also love Ambien; NyQuil (none of this melatonin shit); wine; tequila; piña coladas; margaritas

The pharmaceutical companies - those who profit from the misery of others - could have asked for no greater income-generating scenario than a cold, wet winter full of flue shots and NyQuil, followed by a hot spring and record-breaking pollen counts. (I believe that people were not so allergic to their environment until they began polluting themselves and their world with so many drugs and toxins. But then, nobody asked me.)

Oh by the way, man, don't ever mix turkey and Nyquil together... it's nasty and it doesn't fuckin' work anyway.

Kash walked in a few minutes later and immediately went to the kitchen. Opening the same cabinet I’d just been in, he looked around before shutting it and looking over the counter at me. “Rach, there’s nothing here you can take. I’ll run to the st—What’s in your hand?” I lifted up the toilet paper roll. “Other hand.” I lifted up the NyQuil. “It’s eight thirty in the morning. You’re taking NyQuil?” “Ugh.” That’s sick-talk for Yes, I am, stop bitching at me. “All right, give me that.” He pried the NyQuil from my hand and bent close. “I’ll go to the store and get something for whenever you wake back up. Is there anything you need or want?” “Nope.” I rolled to my side and hugged the roll of toilet paper as I curled into a ball. I just wanted to go back to sleep and not have my nose feel like it was about to fall off. A few moments later Kash was laying my comforter on me and lifting my head up to stuff my pillow beneath it. After a quick kiss to the top of my head, he was gone. He so deserved pancakes tomorrow morning. Another

I put 3rd Fire Team in reserve, as usual. They're Malrosio's, and he's dumber than Fabio on two bottles of NyQuil.

Acetaminophen. Same thing. It’s in a lot of over-the-counter drugs. People take a Tylenol and a Nyquil and a Coricidin, not realizing they all have acetaminophen. More than two grams a day can be lethal for someone with a compromised liver. That’s just three Extra Strength Tylenol. You can see how easy it is to overdose.