Yes, I know: Hemingway had alcohol, Sartre those mescaline experiments, and Hunter S. managed to pound out amazing things while on...whatever he could get his paws on, but Vicodin just doesn't cut it. It takes the edge off the pain, but brings along with it nausea, sleepiness (I picture the Disney dwarf in Snow White), and shallow naps punctuated with menacing dreams. Profundity (or even the illusion of it), nope. Inspiration, zip. Clarity of thought, don't make me laugh.
I know, excuses, excuses. The story will continue later, after a short, terrifying nap.