My brain is currently a pulsing, radioactive microwave cooking whatever is left of my gray matter and I am 100% convinced my mouth was used as a municipal sandbox overnight.
I’m lying here completely paralysed, staring at the ceiling, trying to negotiate with God like an absolute coward while the slightest sliver of morning sunlight feels like a direct, personal laser attack on my retinas.
My phone is vibrating across the room.
Probably a flood of texts confirming every single terrible, loud, unhinged financial and social decision I made last night...
But moving my arm to grab it feels like trying to bench press a Honda Civic.
At this point, the only thing keeping me tied to the mortal plane is the desperate, spiritual necessity of a 2-litre bottle of cold water, a greasy bacon and egg roll and a vow to never look at beer again.
A vow that I'll inevitably break by next Friday.
Cheers.
Dane.