1) I'm not going to go wherever it is I'm supposed to go today. I didn't want to show up at my office today when I woke up at 6 am, because I had spent a good majority of the night before drinking with friends and getting home late, compounded with staying up later and poor food choices immediately prior to sleep. So waking up after 4 hours of unhealthy, grease n' booze half-nightmares really wasn't a shoeless dance through my old grandmother's dewy garden.... it was pretty shitty. The thought never remains longer than a passing 2-3 minutes, but during that time I'm steadfast in my hatred of the day's responsibilities. I line up a foolproof plan to avoid having to go to work.
"I got it.. I'll lay on the couch with my head dangling off the side so that a lot of blood rushes to my head, then I'll hold my nose with my fingers and call into work before anyone gets in, so I have to leave a voicemail. Then I can feign illness!"
2) What are the chances that I'm going to throw up? This is the worst of all three thoughts, but it's also one of the first to pop into my head. I immediately go into plan-mode. Should I use the good 30-40 minutes or pure misery my stomach is going to go through to get my bedroom door open, have a glass of water ready to sip on, and clear a stumble-free path to the bathroom? Because I know the next near-hour is going to be used for contorting my body into impossible angles to buy those precious extra minutes of puke-free splendor. Then the worst question pops into my head...
"Should I just go puke and get it over with?"
WORST QUESTION EVER! I've planted the seed of doubt, the wooden planks barricading the door of complete biologicial armageddon has now started splintering, and it's not going to hold for long. I've pulled the blankets off of my body at this point, because I know any given moment that next burp is going to turn into Stage 1 of the gurgling/puffy-cheek/mad dash for the nearest receptical to handle the liters of waste I plan on dishing out.
3) I really want to masturbate, but I'm afraid to. What better way to cheer up after a long night and longer morning that to pinch off a quick one? Surely I've got to be releasing a fantastic amount of protein and grease and hatred and liquid guilt through 10 minutes of drowsy spanking, where everything goes in a different rhythm and nothing really gets accomplished except turning the one rigid part of my body into a mushy, stinky mess like the rest of me. Hung-over morning masturbation is the equivalent of a Down Syndrome 5th grader with a saxaphone and no sheet music; it's just lots of movement and sound, and by the end of it something's broken or missing.
The danger is the hung-over crank off is that something in taht activity inevitably leads to vomiting. Whether it's the amount of energy expendid, or the abuse on the body, or possibly just the physical manifestation of my brain's disgust and guilt with the rest of me after witnessing such a sad, pathetic act.
* * * *
Such are my weekend mornings. I'm left with my thoughts too much, I'm afraid.
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