The Morning After (a.k.a. Schlitz Happens)

Hoo boy, that was a rough one.   The spirits moved me a bit too, well, spiritedly last night, and this morning I awoke lying shirtless on the icy kitchen floor.  Were it not for the heat emanating from the oven (I evidently attempted to heat up some leftover lasagna in the wee hours), I might have gotten hypothermia.  Or worse.  I dread to ponder what might have befallen this poor body of mine.

I must ask you humbly to forgive the embarrassing conceit and incoherence of my second post yestereve.  Both pride and modesty bade me strongly to take it down this morning, but to do so would be anathema (just looked that one up) to the spirit of my undertaking here.

And now, in my diminished, hungover consciousness, with awareness something on the order of a hearing-impaired bat and suffering the distinct sensation of a host of gnomes hacking away at my temples with tiny, dull machetes, I must don my cotton shirt and twill slacks and coat of undisclosed synthetic fabric and go to work at the hotel.  This is what it means to be an adult.  To brace up against everything in me crying out to succumb to the loathing and agonies of the morning after, and to tap into a wellspring of fortitude that allows me to forge ahead and do my duty.  I am a bellman.  This is the charge that the fates have layed upon me, and by the honor of my fathers and forefathers and grandfathers and stepfathers and godfathers and Father Christmases and Godfathers of Soul, I will fulfill my obligation and work the 3pm to close shift for seven dollars an hour plus tips.

I think I'll just have one more beer before I go.  Just to take the edge off.