Morning After

All that excitement the night before and you wake up stinking.  Of your own body odor, the sweat that poured out into your clothing, dried, and now oozes out from a corner of the bed like a sick and small creature that you raised in the basement with a lack of proper food and socialization.  Your throat is dry, and you know you need water, but for a second of an instant you are aware enough to realize that the pain will come, and come strong. Turns out, as the wave of consciousness doubles back, that you simply hadn't moved yet, and somehow had stabilized in a semi-drunken scraped up stage of self-mummification.  Efforts to preserve even this apocryphal state are futile and it mocks you in some kind of delayed reverb effect that you didn't expect, and desperately need to go away. When you roll your head to the side the brain gel that must, somehow, hold the appropriate chemicals and liquids in balance in your head, gets pulled by gravity down and through the filter of mushy mold that is your mind, and pushes an acidic and booze filled twist of poisonous and heavily dull pain that cannot be pinpointed but envelops any notions toward productivity and swears back at you in a slurred voice: who has control now?.  The torture game begins and you plead with yourself to let go of this incredible attention stealing phenomenon.  You take a deep breath then, and contemplate throwing up somewhere, somehow, to rid yourself of this parasite, but your own stench and the ideal of vomit make you too nauseous to begin the process of making a decision.  You are stuck.