A.M.
You wake up groggy, your mouth tasting of
vodka,
beer and
vomit. The sun light streaming through the half-curtained window is bright, and as it hits your sore,
dry eyeballs it feels as though they are being seared with a
branding iron. You turn your head from the source of the
displeasure, and are rewarded with
waves of nausea.
going to spew not going to spew don't move don't breathe too hard get some air in my lungs don't think about it don't swallow
Your mouth is dry and as you try to swallow you
gag on
the acrid taste of old cigarettes and alcohol. Your hair stinks, you're coated in
a film of sweat and filth, and you're going to die if you don't get some
water soon.
what the fuck happened i can't remember getting home this is my home right okay did i spew in bed nope that's good what went wrong we were just having a few at the local then we went to that other bar then we went to that club and
There are vague ideas cowering at the corner of your brain,
tiny sections of time afraid to turn into memories
oh god i didn't kiss him did i please don't tell me that i said that to her face i didn't dance on the table and sing 'the gambler' at karaoke
as the still-life portraits of people and things and places from last night refuse to merge into one big picture, a messy mosaic of laughter, alcohol and being in the wrong mind state at the wrong time.
the curse of the hungover