I apologize to my body for the harm I caused it last night. Ignoring the consequences of swilling whiskey directly from a plastic bottle and sacrificing an entire Sunday's productivity and happiness for a few short hours of booze-addled fun, I sit here now, today, in a cold but sunny room, trying to write through a cloudy mind and a thumping heart. My dear kidneys, my beloved liver, my darling lymphatic system, I am sorry for what I have done; I shall not drink to excess again anytime soon.
It was only a few years ago that I did this regularly, that I would spend a majority of nights swimming in a bottle and a majority of days lost among the consequences. How did I manage to have survived that time? How did I allow myself to surrender so fully to the tractor-beam of that foul tincture that is the Sauce? Such is my confusion today that I cannot even think of something worthwhile to write about; such is my worthlessness that I have resorted to musing about a hangover instead of addressing a tougher and meatier issue. On an average day, my writing casts few ripples; instead of having an impact, it sits ignored and passed over on a poorly-named and foolish blog, the fruits of my labor unremunerated, unseen, unimportant. Today, however, I am happy that only a handful of people read these words; this time, my prose is so useless that I debate even soiling my already-tarnished image with this short and fault-ridden content.
Fortunately, however, it is now Monday, and this mortal coil has had a change to rest and recuperate. The ill effects of Saturday night's debauchery have fled before the combined onslaught of a thick fall stew, copious amounts of fluids, and an early bedtime. Oh, if my friends' drug of choice were something other than booze, and if I had but the willpower to say No, sooner, who knows – I might have actually done some good on my one, free day. Oh well; mahalo.
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