As I struggle with yet another pressure migraine, I think fondly (okay, no so fondly) on the scarce few mornings in which I have woken up hungover already praying for death. So, please enjoy this completely silly poem about being young, drunk, and not knowing what the hell a glass of water is.
I was a prisoner of my mind, my warden my conscience, regrets a chain-link fence— served reminder of sudsy sins.
Constricted emotions struggled against my skull, hurled themselves at bone, shards ricocheting to nerves; I felt nothing but aching head. Flood lights brought stinging, alarms caused mental fracture. Death sentence much preferred.
My last meal made of hash brown and Coke. Sent for my porcelain priest, I made final confession, consumed the body of Christ, the holiest of objects: aspirin.