So...

So, I have a recurring nightmare that I accidentally ingest a deadly poison, but I luckily have a giant bottle of surefire antidote pills handy. 

However, it’s in a box covered in apparently military-grade shrink wrap that requires special tools and possibly a long forgotten incantation to penetrate.  

With my certain demise imminent, I manage to mangle my way into the box using lawn equipment from the garage. I grab the bottle with an all too momentary sense of relief only to discover the bottle itself is sealed “for my protection” by a form of testosterone-driven shrink wrap that I believe is actually laughing haughtily at both me and the military-grade shrink wrap over which my recent victory was far too fleeting. This new shrink wrap considers the other stuff “weak sauce.”

I scream in anguish as my hair begins to fall out, symptoms of dropsy arise, I am partially blinded and growing a vestigial tail as the poison blusters through every fiber of my anatomy, but I soldier on.  I arm myself with goggles, handsaws, nunchucks and a  faint hope that I can find an other worldly course to circumvent the commands of the packaging Pharaoh by singing the song of my people...which is often mistaken for thunderous execrations or, ya know, screaming curse words. I lose all sense of time during this fiendish wrestling match, but just as I am certain that I am experiencing a manifestation of shingles, I free the bottle from its nuclear-powered cellophane tomb.  I grab the bottle lustily...only to be confronted with a child-proof cap.  

Despite my rapidly decreasing life span, I am not completely helpless; I am able to deduce the nineteen step sequence of holding, pressing, twisting and yodeling that apparently is beyond the scope of innocents and I remove the cap.  Suppressing my glee(and the horrifying hallucinogenic visions of Satan as well as the all too real pungency of loose bowels) I toss the cap aside with only a slight smirk of victory. I eagerly attempt to pour out an existence-extending capsule...but...cotton.

Soft, fluffy cotton.

Soft, fluffy cotton which has been crammed into the top of the bottle with the force and apparent hatred of some diabolically steroid infused tool of Hades.

My now yellowing withered fingers attempt to remove it, but I succeed in only tearing out delicately small wisps. Much like my hopes they flutter uselessly to the now tear and fecal stained floor along with the remnants of my nutrition deprived fingernails.  

I lack the strength and, at this point, the life affirming desire to go on.

I surrender and ingest more poison...voluntarily.