Last night I had to pick a friend up from the hospital, post-op. He was good enough to walk and so we set out to fill his prescription. This was harder than you might think, at first.

Of course it was. Did you somehow expect it all to be magically deliciously easy? Fools!

The hospital told us one place would be open 24hrs (we left the joint at 10pm-ish) and yet? It wasn’t. They were closed up tighter than a … a … metal drum full of suffocated monkeys. Or something to that effect.

Shakily, we walked on. Well, I wasn’t shaky, my still dazed and slightly drugged friend was. We mounted an offensive though, an offensive against the pharmacies of the world.

We hit the second place and walked, smiling, to the pharmacy section. They were bright and oddly present. They looked a bit like drones. Scary Stepford druggists who wanted to fill our prescriptions … with death!

But the scrip was handed over and looked at and everything seemed like it would go just fine. Until the pill jockey uttered these words:

“No, we’re out of percocet, we’ve had a run on that one tonight.”

Now, the way he said it was so simple and light, like he might’ve told us about the color of his socks. The most normal thing in the world. They had a run on percocet. Like it was going out of style.

And I wondered.

I wonder, still, what caused the run, last night. So many options, so many choices to dabble in and play with. I want to hug them each.

Anyway, the third place filled the prescription and thus was the world saved by the forces of good.

But … a run on percocet? A run over one day high enough to totally wipe out a pharmacy, unexpectedly?

Huh.