The pain envelops me in a maddening embrace, a severe headache unlike any I've ever experienced. It encircles my head like a relentless hula hoop of suffering, squeezing until there's nothing left. I'm sprawled on an ancient couch, too soft to offer solace, too small to grant respite for my legs. How did I end up here? In this wretched hotel room with walls so thin, I can hear my neighbor's every blink. It's a forsaken establishment in the heart of nowhere, populated by worthless scoundrels much like myself.

I massage my temples and reluctantly open my eyes. A solitary bulb dangles from the ceiling, casting a feeble glow reminiscent of a hangman's noose. It provides enough light to navigate the room without stumbling but fails to ward off the skittering cockroaches beneath my feet. The window remains ajar, welcoming in the frigid winter air. I'm overcome with anguish, too paralyzed to shut out the cold or summon the strength to move.

During a migraine attack, desperation drives you to assume any position that might alleviate the agony. Even if it means sinking to your knees and beseeching an invisible, wrathful deity lurking in the heavens above. You make solemn vows to renounce your vices—drinking, self-indulgence, and all other sins that led you to this moment of torment.

Suddenly, the phone pierced the air with his once-favorite Billy Idol song, a tune he now detested, filling the room.

"What the hell do you want?" I snapped irritably, not bothering to check the caller ID. Only three people had my number - my ex, my psychiatrist, and Randy Stewart, the principal of Black Rock City School, who also happened to be an old friend. Given that I hadn't scheduled a therapy session and Randy was known for retiring to bed by 9 p.m. for the past three years, the caller's identity seemed obvious.

"Well, it's not like you didn't call me seven times yesterday. So, how about a little respect, Peter?" she retorted, irritation evident in her voice.