Martini, please. Hold the arsenic.

I went out on and painted the town red with my old friend I. from high school last night. Had a great time, but woke up with one of those ridiculous hangovers that just will not quit. I swear to god, somebody put ferrocyanide in my martini or something. I had a Bulgarian (no offense) dance band playing a slow 80's hair-rock-ballad version of the Macarena in my head all day. I had Bukowski, standing on my back in spiked shoes, doing brain surgery on me with a pneumatic drill while the Sex Pistols were playing a live show in the next room.

I had fifteen thousand tapdancers get up and dance through my head, followed -insult to injury- by the Riverdance ensemble. The last one of the little leprechauny fucks left with my liver and my wallet.

Later, when I was speaking in the great white telephone, hugging the bog, calling out the name of allmighty Ralph, the porcelain deity, Torquemada and the entire Spanish Inquisition ("nobody expects the Spanish inquisition") banged down the door to mount me in the iron maiden and stick red-hot pokers through my ears.

Am I being overdramatic? It's just that I'm a little upset with the fact that I get hangovers that are disproportional to my actual buzz now. I had 6 beers and a Martini last night, for crying out loud! That's nothing! I barely even feel that! And yet, here I am, 4.30am the following morning, and I still have a colossal hangover.

Screw this. I'm going to go make breakfast and then go to bed. Rock on, y'all. I'm a total wuss.