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Hangover.

You know the years are creeping up on you when one night ‘on it’ feels like you’ve done mushrooms and been eaten by a bear. I recall the days when hangovers were little more the a minor inconvenience; nowadays they frantically smash my knee caps in with a sledge hammer. It’s the state of grumpiness I find myself in that shocks me the most. Before I could shrug off a hangover easily but now it’s a fucking challenge. Resolving Palestine looks like a piece of piss by comparison.

I just got back from Tesco and it was possibly the most horrific experience of my adult life. You know those scenes in movies right before someone faints? When everything becomes louder and more intense? Yeah, well that just happened to me and whilst in this fragmented haze of confusion I nearly got mowed down by a child in a pedal car. Beep beep. I actually detest pedal cars and the wailing offspring that demand to be pushed around in them. Take your pedal-powered bratwagons elsewhere, small person.

Literally my hangover has a hangover. I’m attempting to fight it by tossing back painkillers but all that’s done is resulted in me trying to convince a lamp that I’m Batman. I’m also bugging myself by asking really weird questions that can’t really be answered. Like, do sore thumbs really stick out? And did someone see an actual elephant in a room and think “this reminds me of my alcoholism”? The mind boggles. Oh well.

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