Date: Mon, 08 Aug 2005 
Subject: Re: The Fortieth of July: Double Digits (fwd)

So, I'm not sure if I had ever thought of myself as hung over in the
past.  If so, it would have been after some earlier 40th.

But after this 40th, I was quite the whiny bitch in the morning.
Waking up after six hours of sleep, still drunk, vertiginous.  After
some debate, I decided to throw up.  What came out seemed to be
nothing but concentrated acid, along with the occasional
unrecognizable tiny fragment.  I had a few bites of a piece of bread,
then slept for another couple of hours.

Torturously, gradually, the day got better.  I never felt up to
driving, but got driven to Kelly's Diner for some eggs and
homefries, just before they closed at two.  

All of this being to say: you bastard.  I renounce Satan in all his
forms.  At the very least, I can tell you this: three forties in eight
hours is too much for me.  I may even have developed a permanent
aversion to the form factor.  It's not yet clear.

As Larry Miller once said, "We all say the same prayer then, 'I swear,
I will never do this again (how long?) as long as I live!'  And some
of us have that little addition, 'and this time, I mean it!'"  (See
http://www.petting-zoo.net/~deadbeef/archive/820.html for the whole
routine.)

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln?  Well, I think I had fun.  I've laid
out my wallet contents around my desk to dry.  I'm not sure exactly
how I ended up being tackled into the wading pool, but I know it left
me with scrapes and bruises, and also an apparent identification as
"that shirtless guy".  

Warmest regards,
Joev