Yesterday was my birthday. I celebrated by sleeping for two hours, then getting on a Greyhound for the four-hour journey from Seattle to Portland. I spent about 2 hours and 15 minutes total of that trip in the bathroom, vomiting up the remnants of my twenty-third year. While this may not have been the worst hangover of my life, I would say that it was carried out in the most desperate and awful of settings. Some hippie jackhole asked me if I was “coming off of something,” eg: heroin. In a perfect world, I would have wiped the sweat from my eyelids and told that Narc to Fuck Right Off. Instead, I grunted and expelled some more frothy bile.
Fuck last year. Let’s do another.