It's one of those mornings.
By "one of those" I do mean Friday, which means I feel like death.
It's always nice to start the weekend off by swearing I will 'never drink again' which usually lasts a whopping 24 hours before I'm tempted to start up again at brunch Saturday morning.
Even now, a bloody Mary doesn't sound too bad.
One little burp is all it takes for my body to remind me that it is teetering on the edge of vomit.
So anyway, I awoke at the miserable time of 7:17 which sounds normal, but I didn't have to throw on a pair of jeans and move out to the living room until 10.
At first, I thought it was the immense amount of pain I was in that woke me up.
You know those throbbing headaches where you can feel your heart beat in your brain?
Yeah, take that, and then multiply by ten and throw me in front of a truck and that is how I feel.
Lucky for me, I am used to this sort of self-induced torturous behavior.
So I know that watching Jersey Shore, avoiding vegetables and dairy, and rekindling my love with G2 is the recipe for success.
But then I had a realization.
My pounding cephalalgia was not what caused my untimely wake.
It was the jackass across the hall.
Let me take you on a time traveling journey 2 months ago.
Dick and Harry across the hall had apparently had a super Sunday Funday.
I am usually too hungover to participate in this activity so I was licking my wounds on the couch when Harry came home.
From what I observed, Dave had drunkenly deadbolted the door and passed out in a death-like coma.
Harry decided the solution was to kick the door......as hard as he could......for. an. hour.
He just wouldn't give up.
Personally, I was terrified.
I silently deadbolted my own door and then watched him through the peephole for the first 15 minutes. Then it became less amusing. then not amusing at all. then annoying. then I wanted to kill him.
I don't know what happened to Dave that night. I didn't care enough to figure out if he got in, and there was no way in hell that crazy mofo was going to be invited in to sit on my couch.
If he had acknowledged his little tantrum, I might even like Dave, in fact I have almost kicked in my own door due to deadbolting many a time in college.
But instead, Dave acted like it never happened as we bumped into each other outside our doors the next day.
And that is when I began to loathe Dave.
By the way, his name isn't Dave, and it's not Dick either. Clearly I made that up and then forgot what I named Thing 1 and Thing 2 across the hall.
The whole point of this was that the Door Slammer was back this morning.
It is really fucking necessary to slam the door?
And then forget your pants or phone or annoying juice or whatever the hell you forgot to make you re-enter and exit your apartment by SLAMMING DOORS.
You have neighbors, asshole. hungover neighbors who are trying to sleep.
So I derived a new plan to kill him.
Plain and simple.
I got the idea after I found heels and bleach in the trash chute when I was taking out the garbge earlier this week.
No more door slamming for Dave.
Of course there is another solution, too.
I could just avoid drinking a potent concoction of liquors and wine, thus avoiding the headache and being a generally more pleasant person, but that would involve giving up my liquid fun.
And that's not going to happen.
So F you, Dave.
And your braided belt too.
I'm not really going to kill Dave.
But not because I don't want to.
Because I think I am going to die before he gets home.
It's true. I am dying a slow death.
Somebody hold me.
Here is a haiku to remember me by:
beer, wine, vodka lime
my liver shudders in fear
it was fun. fist pump.
on second thought maybe I won't die so I can do it all over again tonight.....