Dramatic hangover

I walked into yesterday, snapped my fingers, but nothing lingered except the sweet trace of goldschlager on my collar, the spilled ale--so carefree in the midnight acts of id. And today is a vomiting heat lamp, white hot with regret and incomprehension. Oh I was taller than a Nietzsche hero for a few hours; I was tougher than Joe Louis. But nothing sucker-punches like the morning after, and I woke in thick vicious dullness, swallowing my tongue; consequence pounding my brainstem like a sadistic Irish-Catholic prison warden rapping at the door. The daylight laughs at you, shrieks in your ears, meting out its punishment. Nothing stings so much as dawn, nothing gets the glare out of your eye. Oh I’ve been knocked down and dragged out and through my own ass hole--what’s there is my liver, inside a urine-soaked bottle of whiskey--burning, burning.

[si, un po’ drammatico, no?]

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