Sick As A Small Hospital

I'm sitting at my kitchen table with a head pounding like a butter factory, a hand smudged with a gig stamp that won't come off, and a cup of coffee that's too hot to drink. All around me are empty bottles and smeared drinking glasses and scatterings of ash and torn Rizlas. The sun is streaming through the window and I'd think about going for a walk if I could be sure my legs would hold me. One friend is curdling on the armchair with a copy of Heat magazine. Another is catching flies on the couch with his mouth agape and his arms folded. The other revellers left for home at a quarter to eleven this morning. I just showered because with wet hair I won't be able to go back to bed and snore my weekend away; I mean, I could play Oblivion today! Or watch a movie! Or bake those cheesey scones Rachel Allen's had photographed in such a misleading fashion! But I won't. Nah. Despite my pledges that I would take it easy last night, that I'd partake only gently in anything offered to me by Cork City in a playful mood, I... am hungover. Codswalloped. Dying. Swimming through my own field of vision with arm floats made of cold pizza.

I hope it's not only me who counts all small purchases in pint or bottle-related units. "Yeah, I could rent a new release to watch when I get back from the pub, but it's the equivalent of one extra pint I could have with my mates." Or, "This A-Wear sale is brilliant, but I could get two bottles of Shiraz for the price of that top." I hope it's not only me because it echoes "Serious Drink Problem" around the cathedral that is the inside of my head. Though I don't have a drink problem; I know I don't. I'm just being careful with my thirst and tuned in to what gagging for a gargle could cost me. One must tighten one's belt and prioritise one's spending, and I'm still young, and in my memory-making years, so it's important I get out there and create some amusing flashbacks for my dotage. The harm in that is mostly locked onto my pocket, but I sacrificed a pair of flared jeans on sale and some patterned cushions that would have gone well on my couch for Saturday night's skittering around Douglas Street. So that's ok. A pair of jeans, some cushions, and balance and harmony between my temples. I can live with that for a few hours. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to throw up. The coffee's cool enough to gulp now.

But OH JESUS. I feel as fragile as a glamour model's smile. Why did I wash my stupid fucking hair!? I need my bed back! I need it now!