Lying on the toilet floor like a creased old rag my jacket cradling my head resisting the rising vomit that was only hours ago freely pouring red wine the blood of the martyr I wish I could have been instead of the last one standing or falling down casualty of the war against myself I was the fool of the king not the king of the world with each glass held high begging the barman for a little more gin in the tonic I think I’m sophisticated but I’m just getting wasted and I’ll waste the next day with a head full of splinters and a memory full of spaces.
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If you want a real pounding headache, try blending Toxic Waste (a sour candy) into a margarita? That will either pipen up the hair in your ears, or it will make your eyes hurt from squinting so damn hard. Anyways, you'd think that with aging came some sort of benevolent relief from hangovers, but apparently they only worsen over time.