Pain. Pain. Throbbing unrelenting pain shooting through my head like a malevolent mental storm. Eyes can't seem to focus. Monitor is hurting eyes yet in too much agony to sleep and the thought of turning on the television and being forced to endure the inane gobshite of Morning TV presenters fills me with nausea. Buy this! Buy This! Lara Bingle has done another interview! John Mayer has fathered a love child with a wombat! Turn your family pets into delicious milkshakes with this space-age blender! and on the non-imbecile networks, Turkmenistani news!
Pain still pulsating through my brain. Body feels like a hollow shell of it's former self. Dehydration furthering the agony by refusing to be quenched by harsh burning ginger beer. It tears at my throat like a pair of drunken slags tear at each others hair in a Bacardi Breezer fuelled melee on a Frankston dancefloor. The only other thing in the fridge is grapefruit juice whose tart, sour nature might just send me over the edge into chunderville
Why dear lord, why hast thou forsaken me!? There were no spirits involved yesterday evening, nor red wine. Just sweet, sweet beer! Have I wronged you in such a way? Why am I even talking to you anyway, you don't exist.
Must struggle on. Must find nurofen. Must summon up the energy to walk to Acland St and get breakfast. Braving the leering eyes of society. Damn them and their healthy chirpy ways! Damn their eyes for not suffering like I! Damn them for looking at me like some sort of tramp just because my hair is not combed, my face not shaved and I'm in my jocks due to an inabiity to find clean trousers. I feel like making a proclamation never to drink again. To banish myself from the bottle for good and it almost feels possible at this moment. Drastic action you say? You're probably right, however beer is an irresistable mistress. ready to seduce me once more and take me back into her ample bosom with promises of good times and icy refreshment.
<sigh> Think I might have to get a milkshake.