Awake with a thump. Heart beating like a fucked clock, and nerves shrieking like a xylophone being scraped with a fork. Try to focus but thoughts misfire, plonk and plink like knives and forks being flushed down the toilet. Stumble to bathroom, slop water down mouth, and lurchingly glimpse self in mirror. Not good. Head has apparently been dried out and shrunken while sleeping.
No no no. Someone or something is hammering my mind on an anvil with a bowling ball. Mouth filthy and dry as the floor of a parrot cage.
What. The. Fuck! Why do I do this to myself? Why do these muscles hurt? Did I make out with anyone? Whose email addresses are these in my pocket? Why is there a traffic cone in my bed?
Please make this stop. I’ll rewind rental video tapes. I’ll wash my car. I’ll recycle.
Loser syndrome. A black mood arrives like a Leonard Cohen box set. I hate this house, this job, this relationship, this life. I HATE everything. Except Myprodol. Aaah…
The painkillers are kicking in. All is better now. Screw the bargaining, I’m not going to drink until I… do.