Signing Off

They put blueberries in beer.
I like blueberries. 
There's an oddness in my body. My stomach is noisy and bloated. My temples feel like I've been wearing a hat that's too small. My mouth is stale. My brain feels like someone is indelicately pressing their thumb against it. My neck and shoulders are sore and tight. Not that good I-did-150lb-shoulder-presses tight, something foreign.  

What is this feeling?

What is going on with my body?

Who let this happen?

And why?

And suddenly, like the climax of a game of Clue, the crime is revealed: it was Nick, in the bar, with chicken wings and beer.

This is a hangover. I have a hangover? I have a hangover. At almost thirty, I'm half my life late for this party. Gross. This is an awful feeling. How do regular people do this? I know why people do it, but I'm asking a procedural question. My body is wrecked. I mean absolutely ravaged, like an eighty pound girl in a gang bang. And I suspect that on the Richter Scale of pain, this rates as minor seismic activity. Embarrassingly, my alcoholic intake consisted of four drinks over ten hours (pause for laughter and humiliation).

Still, the sky did not fall down. I'm no worse for the wear. A thousand push-ups from now, my body will forgive me. My fears about becoming an unchained animal weren't realized and the Earth kept spinning. The world now knows a sillier Nick than it had previously. You're welcome, World. Don't get used to it. I like my life like I like my news: scandal-free, sober, and more interested in truth than entertainment.

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