Yesterday was one for the  amateurs. I felt like death warmed over, and thought I was having a heart attack. Maybe I was. But in the end I decide it was just a stupid fucking hangover, the likes of which has not struck me in years. The day before was unstructured and lost. I walked to an area near St. Michael’s Cemetery, at the BQE, then walked back down Astoria Boulevard to the N/W station (W was running special service on the weekend because of 7 train nonsense) and from there I rambled down to 14th Street where I made the easy connection to the L. L terminated at Myrtle for the weekend, which was perfect since Myrtle/Wyckoff was my destination. After my business was tended to I got a slim, Manhattan-priced grilled cheese and bacon at the Bushwick Diner (their receipt says “Bushwick Bagel Diner”) where the waitress was extremely pleasant but the slim sammich, consumed at about 2 pm after virtually no other foodstuffs had entered my gullet that entire day, and when virtually no more foodstuffs would pass through until later in the evening, did not prepare me for the attack on my system that I launched by quickly imbibing a 19.2 oz 12% IPA, then two 12 oz 9.1% IPAs, and then the vodka… all this before padding my innards with even a piece of bread or something more than that already vanquished sammich from the Bushwick (Bagel) Dinerto absorb the alcohol. This is the stuff of a college binge drinker and I don’t know how I let it happen except that I was distracted by things. The next day I felt like death was imminent. I looked horrible, felt horrible, but showed up to work on time and did the job as well as ever, I guess. It’s the kind of pattern I have seen at times in my heavy drinking past, where my wits and sensibilities take until late in the afternoon to realize that oh, yeah, I drank way the fuck too much on an empty stomach. It’s so damning on your mind that the obvious truth of the matter takes time to rise up. Today I feel placid, not just by comparison but on its own characteristic. This is how the meds are supposed to make me feel. Yesterday I think they lost the war. I take no pride in any of this. I’m a fucking idiot who, fortunately for now, has no significant responsibilities and a job that can be done in a state of misery. I’ve come to this job sick as hell many times, though never quite like this. Iin the past I showed up sick for fear of getting fired because every sore throat and headache would require a doctor visit and documentation. I remember snotting my way through entire days because of this. Having reached a point where I am treated like an adult I can actually call out sick without all that nonsense. I thought I might do that today after yesterday’s condition felt terminal but here I am, feeling fine.