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| Illustration by Büke Schwarz |
On Being Hungover
I like being drunk. I
dislike being hungover. Nonetheless, I know that my now would have no
chance fighting my yesterday. So, I deal. I feel the throb between my
brows. I feel the pressure of the sun light on my eyes. I feel the
need to never do it again, to have not ten, but one. One pint of
beer, instead of this body's jeer.
I'm not a drunkard. No,
I'm not. I'm bad at moderation. Hell, I am. There is no balance.
There is no restraint. Will I ever be the type of person who bribes
her liver with an extra bottle of water? The one that knows that
there are many more evenings to come. The one that stops, that is
ready to let go. Do I want to be her?
I have been found by
someone whose presence cheesily reminds me of tomorrow, of what is
yet to come. So, the alleged final round is no longer final. It's no
longer the last chance to buy. It's a decision made by two who had
ten. And that is soothing.
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