Even a broken man is right twice a day.

Last night I had the pleasure of seeing some very good friends. Some I haven't seen in far too long and some I won't be seeing for a while. Towards the end of the night, I had the pleasure of seeing three of each of them. This magic was made possible by an appetizer of cream sherry (which oddly enough is not made with cream but rather with the tears of overjoyed gods) and a main course of Old Crow whiskey (made with and by really, really old crows). After losing (read:winning) a game of ten finger "Never Have I Ever" seven times over, I tossed my corpse onto an all too comfortable roll-out bed. Note, dear reader, that I have not hydrated myself as I am generally adamant about, nor did I have a dessert of ibuprofen and Vitamin B12. Note also, dear reader, that these are very, very important things. I also forgot to set an alarm which was less of an issue as at precisely 6:50 am I was woken by what I strongly believed was my brain passing a kidney stone.

I threw myself off the bed and literally crawled to the bathroom. I remembered the ibuprofen I had cleverly stashed in my pocket and perhaps less cleverly, swallowed six of them, each hitting my stomach like artillery shells hitting an antique store. I managed to ignore the fact that my brain had grown four sizes larger than my skull long enough to wash my face, slap on some deodorant and put on my work clothes (which had never been less comfortable).

My ride picks me up and even though the ibuprofen has more or less done its job, I still look like a particularly disheveled hobo dying from late-stage syphilis. My ride asks me if I'm sure if I want to go in. I tell stories of great men like Charlie Murphy, who continued onward in battle after being grievously injured. I tell this story for quite sometime before realizing I meant Audie Murphy.

Nothing personal, big guy.

 After a bumpy and miserable car ride, I arrived at work and anxiously approached the elevator with trembling hands I hit the up button and hoped hard enough to bring a million Tinkerbells to life that it would be empty. Instead, I was greeted by an intense gust of perfume and a gaggle of old women who did a poor job hiding their contempt for me. I thought for a second that the elevator was particularly shaky this morning, only to remember that I was a convulsing wreck of a man.

Most of my effort that morning was dedicated to not yelling out "I AM NOT A SERIAL KILLER!" and keeping my digestive system from reversing its polarity. Just as I think my morning is going to pass without incident, a shitstorm of challenges decided it was time to shower on me without warning. First, Fredo needs me to be a witness on a whole bunch of legal documents.This is a fairly simple task for most individuals, you just need to sign your name and print it in small text beneath that. Now, normally my signature is no pretty sight, but today, it looked like a group of snakes demonstrating the back pages of the Kama Sutra. The printing my name tiny beneath it went just as tragically as you would expect.

My former best friend in the office, the "Posted" stamp has become my worst enemy. Its former satisfying "BAM" has been replaced by an earth-shattering, bowel-shaking crash. I feel betrayed.

Oh yay! Oh fucking yay! Paulie showed up! Oh happy day! Oh, he sung the Nationwide jingle to me as a ballad in my ear for three minutes! Oh yay! It's obvious there has been a breakout at Arkham, where the fuck is Batman when you need him?

Oh, that's right. Being a dick.

Oh, even better news! I get to do reconciliations. To the uninitiated (read:fortunate), reconciliations are when rich people freak out and make you figure out why their bank account is thirty cents lighter than it ought to be according to Quickbooks. This is great fun.

Finally, lunch arrived. It turns out the chemical additive the building's cafeteria uses to ensure all their food tastes like high-end plastic also has amazing healing properties. I felt more chipper than every animal to ever cameo in a Disney film put together. I felt pumped! Energized! Electrified! Ready to face the world and knock it out in the first round. 

They sent me to Sweetwater City Hall. Those shit-eating, smegma-drinking sons of demons sent me to fucking Sweetwater City Hall. On the plus side, this ended my day. On the other hand, this place makes hell look like a four star beach resort. Every door is held open by a Cheeto's bag. Not just one, that is their official stance on keeping doors ajar. The only thing Sweetwater City Hall has more of than cops is people willing to curse out cops in Spanish over their eighteen dollar parking tickets. While I normally take great joy in people yelling at officers of the law, today I would have preferred the sound of NOTHING. I slipped on my sister's iPod, I rap silently along to a Weezy song. I pushed up my glasses during one of the verses and suddenly felt I was doing something very wrong. I then felt very awkward referring to him as Weezy. 

Luckily, that was the end of my day. I got home, had a celebratory dram of brandy and a four hour nap. So the moral of this story is simple if you drink on a night before work. Drink the fucking ocean.