Day 14 (Hangover in Harlem)

Some mornings are better than others, and some morning are actually mid-afternoons. All the kings horses, and all the kings men couldn’t put my head together again. I have two sets of prescription glasses by my bed, and I don’t think I am capable of seeing the world any better through either of them.

Bright flashes of light in a pitch black room, as I hunt for the aspirin, only to find it in the Saturday slot of a pill organizer I never bought. I certainly hope my daily meds for Sunday are better. In the Shalem Aleichem standard I am making myself a breakfast mimosa: 

voice in my head: But you have no orange juice.
me: It’s ok we will use Jim beam instead.
Voice in my head: but you have no champagne.
me: It’s ok we will use Jim beam instead.
(takes drink)
Me: this is what they call a light morning drink?  

Age old debates arise out of the sewer of my consciousness, if all the other cups are in the sink, and I refuse to do the dishes, is it ok to chase the aspirin with a sippy cup full of whiskey?