Not to beat a dead horse, but jesus christ I’m hung over. It’s 7:15 the next evening and I am absolutely wrecked. My back feels glued to the couch, and just thinking about my dinner plans is exhausting.
I tried the usual hangover cures. I had about twelve hours of sleep, a lot of water, a greasy egg sandwich from my favorite diner, and laid out in a quiet, shady stretch of grass in Central Park with my friends. And I still feel like crap.
I might need some coffee. I might need a martini. I might need to start swiping Jon’s mail-order hangover pills he swears by. I’ve spent a lot of time rolling my eyes at those red caplets, but I’m ready to forfeit my self-righteousness for desperation. This headache is making me resort to new lows.