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