I've Gone to 83% opaqueness, Pt. 1

I wake up today hungover and a little invisible.

I wake up slowly. I move my eyelids. I find them glued together with sleep. I begin to remember the night before.

Last night was not a good idea. Tequila is never a good idea for me. The first shot always has a way of secretly inviting several friends along, motioning to them behind my back, sneaking them past the doorman that was my self-control. These make a soiree of debauchery in my head that I never plan to attend but always get dragged along to.

I check my biological inventory. Heart, hands, feet, elbows. All nominal. The rest of my body is chugging along like a 1974 Dodge Dart, threatening to stall or overheat, but still running. I’ll live

It is at this point I make my first mistake of the morning. I lift my head off the pillow. Stop. Back up. Delete. I try to lift my head off the pillow. Elephants stamped on my face and leave dung in my mouth.

I vomit in my slippers. My throat aches.
I put my hand to my head. My hair aches.
Last night was a horrible fucking idea. My vocabulary aches.

I decide to remedy this first mistake. I go back to sleep.

My brain wakes up three hours later, my body four minutes after that, and I stumble to the bathroom. I drop my slippers in the tub.

I brush the elephant dung out of my mouth and finally look up at the mirror. After wiping the sleep from my eyes I look again and see the framed picture of Abe Vigoda on the wall behind me staring through my chest. I’ve gone to 83% opaqueness.