Dedicated to My Current Hangover

Oh Hangover,

How do I – ow – love thee?

Let me count the ways;

. . .

. . . uh . . .

Well, there’s . . . no . . .

The highs aren’t as sweet if we do not travel to the low –

. . .

No, that’s not right . . .

. . . uhh, love is pain and – ow . . . no . . .

. . .

. . . I feel your love through every dry heave, through every churn in my stomach, through every pound in my head . . . no, that’s stupid . . .

Shit, I got nothing.

Fuck you Hangover, you dirty, filthy, rat-faced, sucker-punching, pig-tailed, knee-biting, party-crashing sonofabitch bastard.  Your cousin Hammered and his little brother Tipsy are just so cool, but they always bring you along for the ride because their mother feels guilty that no one likes you.

. . .

I’d say good riddance, but I know I’m going to be seeing you again tomorrow.

And the day after that.

And for the rest of my life.

Signed,

It Took Me All Day To Write This Because My Head Hurts So Much

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An Ode to My French Press

The daybreak shines through my window
The light a blanket upon my body
Rise and to my French Press I go
For my morning sip and swig of coffee

I scoff at the Starbucks down the street
What of Coffee Bean? Please, don’t make me laugh!
I am man enough to make my own
But to drink a whole pot is a feat
I cannot hold an entire carafe
My stomach has shrunk as I’ve grown

But that’s why I love you, oh my French Press
You make enough for only one
Grounds and some salt to aid with bitterness
Hot water and pour, then I’m done!