You know something’s wrong in your life when you walk out of the pharmacy, look in the bag the lady packed for you, and there’s a bottle in it labeled “MEGA-STRESS COMPLEX.” Seriously? MEGA? Couldn’t ya just have given me the regular version? I told you I had an ulcer for chrissakes, not a stroke! Or the lite? Isn’t there a stress-complex-lite? That would make it sound like a tasty snack bar or something. I got it! Stress-complex-ZERO! Only one calorie! Nope. I was given MEGA. I’ll say it again, MEGA. STRESS. COMPLEX. It's all in really big, fat, bold letters too. What about me exactly suggests that I need that? Is there a sign on my forehead? Is it my hair? My shoes? My shoes! I knew it. This is why I never wear trainers. And then, as if the MEGA isn’t injury or insult enough, did they really have to call it a COMPLEX? I mean I understand, it’s a compound of vitamins B-complex, C, and other supposedly stress relieving nonsense, but surely there’s another way to say that, no? Don’t these people know that the word complex bears a lot of Freudian, dare I call them stressful connotations? How ‘bout amalgamation, mixture…cocktail! Cocktail! The MEGA-STRESS COCKTAIL! See how much better that sounds already. Gimme two, and we can call it happy hour. Happy hour—there’s another name they could have given it. Do pharmaceutical companies have writers? They should hire me. I’d make those pills sell big time. Sorry, not big time, MEGA time.
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