"Sweatpants are a sign of defeat. You lost control of your life so you bought some sweatpants." -KL

You know what cures hangovers? A roomie that delivers Bloody Marys to you in your closet because you swear you've turned into a vampire and the sun is going to destroy you.

You know what causes you to drunkenly hallucinate that the fire sprinkler on the ceiling is a gecko? Not having any damn A/C in said closet.

This state is a rarity for me. A very rare, count it on one hand, unicorn-spotting occurrence. I had to discover for myself that Cachaça tastes like whiskey and tequila had a baby and you want to eat that baby. Now I know that whiskey is stronger than me. This is called learning. It's also called “Frowned Upon Friday”.

In whatever drunken state of wisdom I was in when I ventured to my closet, I thought it was a good idea to pull all of the covers off of my bed and cocoon myself in them on my closet floor. Now, this is not just any ordinary closet, but it's not quite the gateway to Narnia either; this is a massive hangover curing cave of wonder. You could fit another bed in here along with our washer and dryer. However, the layout of our bedrooms wasn't designed for hangover rehabilitation purposes, as I'm now realizing. The windows are directly across from the door to the bathroom that's directly across from the door to the closet. Based on the trajectory of the sun's rays... blah blah science blah blah we both get the blinding hallelujah glory of the sun at 7 am every morning.

I'm up way too early for someone who wasn't planning on "seizing the day". I planned on seizing my sunglasses and somehow navigating through my apartment to hunt down the number for pizza with as little interference from cabinet corners towards my hip bone as possible. Unsuccessful.

To some degree not short of brilliant, I must have been thinking ahead (or thinking with my stomach) and left myself the pizza flyer on the bar. Oh, the joy, they know my usual order by my phone number. I'm not ashamed of this, I'm relieved that I have very little talking to do and a pizza will arrive. If I crack each of the previous doors open just enough, I can remain in a dark state of hibernation with just enough light that I won't forget where the wall ends and the door begins. I've given myself enough accidental bruises by assuming that all doors are open in the dark.

Thirty minutes later and I have my pizza beside me, while I hum along to the sounds of the Internet modem, tactfully mounted on the wall so that when I sit up, I can smack my head on it. This is my own Hell. I'm too miserably hot to stay here but if I get back in my bed I will end up suffocating myself with pillows to escape the sunlight.



Either by extreme exhaustion or a mild heat stroke, I've managed to fall back asleep.


It is now 7pm and I'm ready to embrace the post hangover world we can aptly sum up as "sweatpants".



My most recent google searches: "Where to get dippin dots in Dallas" and "What are gelled nails?"


I'm okay, everyone.



Counting Sleep by Trent Dabbs You have to have a great soundtrack for spending a weekend in doors packing.