Damn, what a day. A phone call wakes me up at 4 AM, an hour earlier than I should be waking up. It's my mom, bitching about her back and how she needs more Vicodin. Hearing my mom in pain is horrifying, but so is the idea of her becoming a dope fiend. Images of crackheads roaming outside my door flash into my mind. I was in med school and needed a cheap place to stay, and addicts abound wherever "affordable" housing is available. "Affordable" is a relative term and took a new meaning for me at that point in my life. Years later, success brings new problems. Not only do I fear my poor mother becoming dependent on opiates, but the DEA has been cracking down on fellow doctors that have been a bit too carefree with painkiller 'scripts. And I mean crazy-style.nnLawsuits have been popping up like parking tickets in the Loop, and many sawbones have even gotten locked up. Hearing phone calls from patients screaming in excruciating pain makes me sick, but I can't afford the lawyer fees for yet another fling in the courtroom. And jail time. I don't want to even think about that one. Shit, nothing's easy anymore in our Modern World. Then my better half starts bitching about being woken up, as if it's an activity I thrive on. That's right, just keep calling her the better half and eventually you'll remember it's the truth, right? I sure hope so; we haven't even had a good fuck in a month or two. Well, sex is always good, but no great, mind-blowing sex. (Hell, even my thoughts sound like I'm a Cosmo editor.