Original writing prompt: [WP] You used to think you were immortal. Turns out you are actually god, you just had a really bad hangover and forgot who you were.

Another Day of Massive Headache. It's been going on forever, or at least as far as I can remember.

The pain is consistent, so much that I wondered whether I'm having a stroke or heart attack, but the doctors only seemed to be alarmed that I have two hearts.

To which I replied, "Well I'm a lucky bastard with an unusual spare parts now am I?"

The doctor was appropriately horrified, judging from the nurse's expression.

But well. It's not like I can help it, I don't recall asking for an extra heart when I was born.

Heck, I don't even remember being born at all.

I had a sip of coffee, hoping the caffeine will help with the pain, but to no avail.

Maybe I should just give in, try some painkillers, not everyone will get hooked. I'm sure I'll be fine with just one or two tiny dose. Plus, I have some points I can use with my Tesco card.

Ack. After popping the tender foil, two white pills sat on my shaking palms, and oh my word I cannot believe I'm nervous.

Downing it in one go with water, just as YouTube recommended, they should have gone swiftly down my throat, although I seem to feel something stuck in them, comments and WikiHow advised this is all a figment of my imagination. What a weird and limited imagination I have.

In ten minutes time, either it was my heavy dinner, or that the pills are actually as effective as mentioned in their ads, I feel the pain slowly lifted from my skull, but leaving me with a rather strong sense of drowsiness.

Panadols are not shitting you when they tell you the side effects.

And the next thing I knew, I was down, unconscious, face flat on the carpet.

I woke up, blinked for two seconds, and took another three to recover from my slumber.

Oh damn. What time is it? Am I late for the meeting?

I picked up the phone lying on the ground, I groaned as I saw the date.

Well, shit.

My secretary, whoever it is now, is going to kill me.

Fumbling around the apartment for decent clothing that does not involve anything less than a brilliant shade of gold, I've realised there's literally nothing in the wardrobe that goes beyond white and a pale shade of chestnut. I decided to leave it, and dress as I normally would.

It wasn't my idea that Buddha should be gold in colour anyway.

I was supposed to be all about letting go of our desires, that golden halo was metaphorical, not physical.

I can't believe I've been out for a couple of years, even it's just a blink of an eye for immortals, I feel bad for not being the moral support for mortals.

I sighed, and pinched my nose.

We need a better censorship for offerings, really; it's the third time in twenty years, and humans doesn't deserve to live in such pain in their souls just because I've become light-weighted from being out of practice in the realm of alcohol handling.

Perhaps I should bring that up in the meeting, hoping the monks can effectively educate the followers to just donate the money or help others, instead of knocking me out in the future.

(End)

The title taken from L4D, Francis's line when pain pills are picked up (I think).