Happy birthday, Alex.
My stomach is turning and I can still taste the Red Bull in my throat and on the backs of my teeth, even though I’ve brushed twice and rinsed with Listerine three times since getting home at three this morning. I count the throbbing pulses in my temples, not because it’s good math practice but because they’re totally unavoidable. I’m listening to the new Jakob Dylan album but it’s really serving more as a lulling distraction from the heaviness of my eyelids and the scratchy redness of my eyes. I’m pretty sure my skin is seeping vodka, and that to everyone who comes near I sort of smell like it. I would do terrible things to get an hour of sleep right now.
Why is it on the days after I’ve been out drinking more than I should that people always want to have conversations with me? I know I can be a pretty fun and entertaining drunk but this is just ridiculous. Leave me in peace: I’ll get my work done just as well if you can leave me in peace for one day. I’m sure that thing your kid did this morning was fuckin’ adorable but tell me about it tomorrow.
I sound crotchety, but I am not. In fact, I think if I didn’t have to get up at seven-thirty every morning I might feel like this more often. It’s easy to lose sight of that when my biggest accomplishment so far today is making it here on time and I may not get much else done before lunch. Still, I’ll survive the next eight hours if I have to. I might just have to take a nap in the closet instead of grabbing lunch.
I can justify my hangovers when the road to achieving them is paved with good cheer, which last night most certainly was. But if I still feel like this at noon, so help me….
UPDATE: It’s noon. Dammit!
ANOTHER UPDATE: Five o’clock. Work’s over, and I feel worse. I’m going to keel over and die to the tune of Hot Hot Heat. O God, the aftermath!
