You were terribly wasted the night before. A large amount of alcohol was flowing. So was your mind. Bent up social energy was bubbling and you needed to get it out. You wake up fully clothed, no time for pajamas. No motor skills to adorn any proper sleeping apparel.

Your mouth is an ashtray. Your alarm goes off blaring promises in your ear. I was going to motivate myself to do this and that? Fuck. Blood splashes from one end of your brain to the other as you stare at the diodes reciting numerical measurements of time. You’re still drunk. A chemical reflex. The math is a little shaky but it was only four hours or so when you can comprehend passing out. You know half-heartedly that wasn’t the time. There was a cold-filtered zombie walking the streets. The groan of doing what you’re supposed to starts itching. Words of immaturity splatter your conscience. Take care of business, man. Responsibility.

You scrunch your toes and begin diagnosing your dexterity. They work. Your legs shuffle about. They’re good. The next steps will hurt. Equilibrium is so far from truth you laugh. Your bathroom isn’t far. A porcelain collapse is inevitable.

Then it starts. No, not that…