It is arctic-freezing in the office.
…Two air conditioners war from lobby to the WHS Pimp’s office for the sake of incoming clients, who never arrive. I, meanwhile, have turned to ice, attempting thaw now by spending “lunch” pacing…while one-thumb punching in this blog.
I feel a little bit awful.
…This is because Cecil and I spent last evening getting blitzed. Which seemed like more than just a good idea at the time. It was a long-coming, multi-purpose necessity.
…Like the tater tots and pizza, which followed.
At around 11 pm.
….Also now: a regret.
…Funny thing about blow-out binging…it never seems to adhere to the: “chances you don’t take” regret rule. And why is that? It’s only fucking fair.
But, no. No, but no, but…no.
(Another water swig, pausing to make sure it goes down n’ settles.)
Minimal Hangovers are like the nagging mother of bad ideas. Not a big enough punch in the gut to say, “Wow…am so not gonna do that again in a long while.” More like,”There are smarter/healthier ways of doing things, and you should be a more responsible adult…with two more long work days ahead.”
…Minimal Hangovers are the bitchy little “I told you so’s” of day-afters. Which sorta just pisses you off more than prob’ly a full blown blitzer.
…At least then you could be like, “Yeah! I told you that was a totally serviceable set of reasons to get tanked! See! A repercussion that is equal to the joy/rage/disappointment/situation which preceeded it! Embrace it, as it all pukes out in front of you!”
(More water. And more.)
….Have peed no less than ten times today. An every-swallow effort to force-cleanse in the opposite direction of how it currently wants to. And I have done this. To myself. No denial here. Only regret.
…Regret and insane yearning for some fucking ginger ale.
So: there is that, then.
(Water, water, water…to infinity…)
…Also: I want a taco.
Why?
~D
