Hangover

“Ugh…”

The noise came forth unbidden from somewhere within him as he rolled over in bed. He knew he needed to drink something, something other than the fire water that had brought him to this point, if he wanted to feel better at all today. Alcohol is a sneaky one; your first few times, you can get completely obliterated, and then you’re ready to run a marathon three hours later. After you’ve had your fun with her, after getting to know what drunkenness tastes like, she’ll turn on you; crashing headaches, queasiness, stiff and sore muscles…you feel like you’ve been hit by a train. You’re not sure you could run to the bathroom if you needed to, let alone a marathon.

He pulled the pillow over his eyes. “I’ll just sleep a little while longer before I take care of myself,” he thought. “No need to move just yet…”

The pillow may have been blocking all light from his eyes, but it was unable to block the sounds as they assaulted to his ears. Children were playing, birds were singing, and dogs were barking. It seemed the rest of the world took no pity on him in his pathetic state.

He sighed. Why did he do this to himself?

He chuckled. “Because getting to this point is fun, right?”

Well, not really. Sometimes, yes, but most of the time, there was a different reason…

“I was just trying to find the genie,” he thought. “I rubbed the bottle and he never came out. After a while, I decided to go in after him.”

The voice in his head sighed; if his internal monologue had eyes, it would have rolled them. “Did you find him?” he asked himself sarcastically.

“No, he must have moved; made it all the way to the bottom before I realized he wasn’t there…”

It dawned on him that he was still drunk; he was having a full-blown conversation with himself, and to top it all off, he was giving himself sass.

He sat up gingerly, suddenly noticing how incredibly parched he was. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the door, willing himself to have the strength to walk downstairs and to the kitchen.

“One of these days, this is going to kill me,” he said.

The sarcastic side of his brain responded immediately.

“You know, you’re never going to be able to drown your demons like this. You can’t kill your enemy by drinking the poison yourself.”

True; there would have to come a day when he at least pretended to be an adult and faced his fears head on instead of popping the cap of a bottle of whiskey and shoving them inside it. That day, however, was not this one. At that given moment, he needed to hurl; personal growth and self-exploration would have to wait a while longer.

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