Some days are simply not meant to be enjoyed. I expected to spend my Monday like a cheerful upstanding worker bee. An obnoxiously happy person. The one you hate, the one with a monopoly on sunshine and radiance. Everything would be wonderful for me. Mr Productive! Mr. You Betcha! Mr. Thumbs Up!

Not a fucking chance. I'm going to take a nap as soon as I finish typing this self pitying heap of letters.

I'm still not normal after this weekend. I flaked out on helping my sister move to her new apartment on Saturday. She didn't call me until late on Friday night, but I had made plans late into the night and I was already in full swing. I tried to make it there on Saturday, but by the time I could leave to help she didn't seem to want my help anymore, and spoke to me with dismissive exasperation. I felt guilty, perhaps irrationally. So I went out that night and drank a boatload of liquor and indulged in a few other ill-advised confections.

I landed on a couch at 3am. I was sweating gallons, feverish, and breathing raggedly. I wanted desperately to fall asleep, but vertigo and my body temperature chased away any notion of rest for a long time. Friends became concerned.


Next time, avoid free mystery drugs from strangers.

"Are you okay? Why are you sweating? It's cool in here."

"I'm fine, just a little dizzy. Don't worry about it."

"Steve, you're pale. You look terrible. What's wrong?"

"Nothing, just feeling tired and thristy. Don't I smell great?"

"I'll give you that. That's a hell of a nice deodorant."

"Yep."

"Want another beer?"

"Uh....no. Water. On ice. How about that?"

"Sure, be right back."

My hangover the next day was punishing. Through all of Sunday I felt like I'd been stuffed down a sumo wrestler's thong right before a match. Gargantuan slimy buttocks mashed me left and right, simultaneously suffocating me and tenderizing me into pulpy swampass grease.


Tag me, bag me, slag me.

Finally my day of purgatory ended. I managed to fall asleep after I finished watching Every Which Way But Loose. I slept for three fitful hours before my cruel alarm twisted its diamond corkscrew into my ears with malicious glee.

My eyes feel like frying yolks, my brain feels like a nerf football getting chewed up by a really dumb dog, and I think I'm going to swear at everybody who reads this in hope that it'll make me feel better.

Fuck you. Nope, didn't help. Once more, with feeling. Fuck All Of You. Nothing. I guess I'll just have to feel sorry for myself for the rest of the day. 8:15 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm