I'm not in the habit of reviewing drugs, but my doctor prescribed a rather interesting one for me yesterday, and it sort of dragged me through the mud head-first last night.

When I woke up this morning, I couldn't see straight, I was missing ten bucks, I was tired as hell, and my tongue was covered in hair.

Allow me to explain.

Actually, that's asking a bit too much. Rather, allow me to attempt to explain.

First, let's get into the Way Back Machine...

One week ago

I was tossing and turning in bed. It was a touch warm in the apartment (thank you, stupid air conditioner company), but that wasn't enough explain my restlessness. It lasted all night. The minutes crawled like a drunk on a good night, and morning arrived without my having slept a wink. I was miserable.

I did this again on the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day.

In short, I was becoming (to use a big word), an insomniac. An insomniac is a person who has a hard time sleeping even though he is really good looking. He didn't do anything to deserve it, and he doesn't believe in God, which means that it can't be God's wrath, and so must be a disease (like herpes) that can be treated by way of modern western medicine.

One day ago

Because I'm strong and was able to come to terms with the fact that I was suffering from a terrible condition, and because I am 100% susceptible to the advertisements that are played during Extra! commercial breaks, I went to go see my doctor to ask for drugs.

I called him.

<ring, ring, ring>

Him: Hello, Doctor X here.

Me: Hello, Doctor X. It's Rory. I can't sleep. I need drugs.

Him: OK.

Note that a monkey could do my doctor's job.

Did you note it? Good.

So, he prescribed some Ambien for me. The commercial for Ambien features a beautiful woman who is an insomniac (like me!), and who finds solace in a little pill that helps her go to sleep. In the ad, she takes the tablet and, as advertised, falls asleep a short while later. Her bedroom is straight out of a Restoration Hardware catalog, and it looks like a servant has fluffed her pillows for her. It's wonderful.

"I," you think to yourself, "want to be like her, except that I want to remain a man."

And so it happens.

I went to the pharmacy and picked up my dope. I was thrilled at the prospect of falling asleep, and had been telling all of my friend (no, that's not a typo) about how great it was going to be. I was going to take the drug. I was going to float down against a chroma-key background special-effect into my bed, at which time my head would install itself between two pillows that are plump as the breasts of Hera. It was going to be me.

When night finally arrived, I was like a girl at a Beatles concert. That pill was a rock star, and I wanted it inside of me.

Because I wanted it to be rocking my world by the time I got to bed, I decided to take it before completing my evening toilet. After swallowing the little miracle, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and waited. I stopped for a moment to check my email before getting into bed.

That's when the "fun" started.

There I was, pill digested, sitting in front of my laptop. Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew that I was supposed to be checking my email, but I kept forgetting. I vaguely remember opening and closing Outlook about forty times before realizing what I was doing. Looking up, I noticed that I had gained an extra apartment at some point in the previous few minutes. There were two of everything, except for champagne flutes, of which I suddenly had four, but that's only because I started out with two of them. Basically, I was seeing double.

If I could have managed a clear thought at the time, I might have thought: "Oh. Well, that's a good deal." Unfortunately, thinking wasn't on the agenda. Hallucinating was, though.

After remarking on the sudden increase in trinkets around the apartment, I noticed that my historically flat floor had become a small hilly region resembling a golf course, only without all the jerks in stupid outfits. Light and shadows were confusing my brain in an incredible way, and perspective became even more relative than usual.

Wanting to inspect this phenomenon more closely, I attempted to stand. The only thing stopping me from actually doing it was a complete and total loss of all motor control. I fell back down into my chair on the first attempt. I was like a space shuttle waiting for a clear window to launch (except that my brain had long since been in orbit).

After that, it's mostly a blur.

When I was a teen, I engaged in my fair share of experimental substance abuse, and must say that everything I had ever tried paled in comparison to this super-drug that my monkey-replaceable doctor prescribed for me.

I don't know when I finally got to bed. I'm given to understand that I made some embarrassing phone calls, and there's still the issue of the missing dough. It may have been a hard night, but I've been counting my lucky stars that I didn't wake up Shanghaied and fifty miles out to sea. It can always be worse, you know?

In conclusion

I've constructed my own system for dealing with the rating of this drug. Please refer to the tables below:

Unit of measurement:	Junkie needles - Appeal of this drug to regular abusers of substance
Rating:
Rationale:	I only gave this one two out of five needles because, strong as the drug is, it just isn't ready to take the place of heroin on a junkie's shelf. I don't care how good the ads are - Ambien doesn't have what it takes to displace the king of life-ruination.

Unit of measurement:	TVs - Whether or not this drug makes you feel like you're in the commercial (i.e.: efficacy as claimed)
Rating:
Rationale:	I wasn't sure here. I thought that one out of five TVs wasn't enough, given that I may have had a negative experience that most people wouldn't suffer. However, not having been adequately warned about the side-effects, I'm going to have to dock the medical industry. I know, I know: Caveat emptor. Hey - You try navigating a golf course in rubber legs, and then come back with all your fancy Latin. I bet you don't even know how it's pronounced, you ignoramus.

Unit of measurement:	SBs - My father's initials
Rating:
Rationale:	Obviously, this drug's market is in the occasional recreational abuser of legitimate medicine. Because it's prescribed by someone with a nice degree, most Americans won't feel that there is anything "wrong" with getting an interesting buzz from the pill (what's really wrong is that you can't just get this stuff out of vending machines). In that sense, I think my dad's the perfect customer for something like this. He lived through the sixties, regularly surfed Pipeline on acid (no shit), and could drink Jim Morrison under the table (I'm not talking about that sissy beer stuff, either - I'm talking 32oz peyote milkshakes cut with turpentine).