I start to research the quickest way to cure a hangover,
as if I don’t already know that answer is Mc Donald’s. I always think I’m going
to find some crazy concoction I’ve never heard of before and it’s just going to
wipe away all the bad things. You know, hit clear on the old internal hard
drive of past poor decisions.
If and when I do get out of bed the next day, the house
is just one giant crime scene and I become the great detective as I walk
through, assessing the damage. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor next to
the couch, shoes in the hallway, a five dollar bill and a book of matches on
the counter. I don’t even want to discuss what was found in the kitchen sink.
The front door was only partially locked but I commend myself on at least
getting it closed this time.
I attempt to sort things out and put stuff away but just
end up curled in the fetal position on the couch, clutching the Netflix remote,
hoping it can take me to a better place. I start to wonder who I can talk to
about making Mc Donald’s deliver. And I wonder why the hell no one has thought
of that by now. Surely I’m not the only one who has found the hangover cure on
their breakfast menu. From the looks of people in their drive through on Sunday
mornings, I know I’m not alone. Those sunglasses don’t fool anyone, lady. It’s
fucking raining.
I start to make all sorts of promises to myself about the
future but I know it’s all in vain. I remind myself that Netflix and Mc Griddle
sandwiches will always be there for me, and I take solace. Like everything else
as you get older, fun is expensive and you don’t always pay monetarily. It is
what it is, they say. And you only live once.
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