The ringing in my ears isn’t from my phone for once, nor the doorbell my house doesn’t posses. It’s not the alarm clock I have dramatic fantasies about shooting with small hand cannons. It’s the remanance of being hit with a bottle of Southern Comfort. Not literally my little friends, there was no ‘thump’ in the night, but quit unintelligently it hit my gullet and down the sweet succubus’s juice flowed. The burn in my belly was ripe, the tinge of acid reflex in my throat reminding me of the foul act I just laid upon my body.
For those of you who don’t know, and that would in deed be all of you (and if you do know stop stocking me for I haven’t mentioned it yet!) I am Irish, and I have relied on this beautiful fact for many years to get me threw drunken nights and even more feared: the morning after. But tonight is would seem that lady luck has run out on me (the whore!) and left me with a hang over before I’ve even fallen to meet dear ol’ Mr. Sandman. What happened to the Irish not getting these evil.. these vial things? I’ve been gypped I tell you. By heritage alone I should be exempt. By body mass alone I should have been able to still say my ABCs back wards…. No.. that’s a lie.. Even being dyslexic I can’t conquer that feet sober. I’ll have a talkin to with St. Patty when I reach the perly gates many years from now… and remind him of the day he forgot to bless my hang over away.
Good night my lovelies… good night!
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