Sometimes
you just have it coming. You drank a lot last night and you’re sure as hell
that you’re going to pay for it. I mean do the math. X+Y=Z. ‘X’ represents the
total number of beers you downed. ‘Y’ is the total hours of sleep you’ve had.
And ‘Z’ is the monster hangover that’s going to kick your sorry little ass down
a flight of stairs.

Of
course, there are preventive measures you can take. Who knows? You might get
away with an underhanded preemptive strike. You could drink gallons of water
before crashing to bed, pop some Ponstan or whatever; but everybody knows that
these rarely work and chances are still good that you’re not going to simply
walk away from all of this feeling anything less than a very bad day in hell.

Surprisingly,
there are mornings when you wake up doubled up in a fetal position expecting
the dreaded thing to hit you from all sides but realize that Lord Hangover
feels unusually merciful today. These are the rare occasions when you rise from
your hangover like fucking Lazarus. You were a stiff dead guy the night before
but you kind of shoot out of your tomb this morning, got yourself some
breakfast complete with that somewhat brackish cup of instant coffee and
everything seems to be normal.

I don’t
know how this sort of thing happens, but I rolled off bed today relatively
unscathed. There’s this ringing on my left ear, but other than that I feel
peachy.

You see,
last night, I went out boozing with my good friend Jenan; it feels weird
to go out drinking on a Friday night instead of the usual Saturday night, but I
figured that since I’m a normal person now who works through a regular 9am to
6pm shift, I might as well get used to it. We sat down to talk and have coffee somewhere
in West Avenue to help cleanse the putrid stream of alcohol
running through our system.