It’s like a baby dinosaur (a mean, big-headed one, not one of those soft, plesiosaur sort of things that were like an ancient lizard precursor to Labrador retrievers) is hatching inside my head, and hammering insistently at one weakening, cracking, crumbling spot on my skull in its efforts to escape.
It’s like somebody bored into my brain with a core sampling drill, and then wrapped a leather belt around the core sample, and then started tightening it in time to the beat of “The Humpty Dance”. Also, the belt has pointy metal studs on it.
It’s like a chain gang member – a weak one who has been unhappily cursed with very little coordination, but an extremely determined will – is sledge-hammering a railroad tie against the spot just above my right eyebrow.
The last time I had a migraine this bad, I thought I was dying end eventually ended up in the hospital, alone, abandoned in a corner with a dried-out migraine-breaking IV in my arm because the admitting physician had forgotten I was there.
That was fun, but alas, I cannot replicate the experience because I no longer have health insurance.