st. hungfuckingover day

I sprung out of bed on only a few hours sleep. I felt good, spry; I should have known.

It was shortly thereafter that I was forced to huff down two hotdogs I'd microwaved. My stomach was a gurgling gaping maw that needed to be appeased. The poison in the hotdogs was making short work of the poison from the tequilla, so I brushed my teeth, slapped on some deoderant. I got about halfway to work when I realized things weren't going as well as I hoped. I jaywalked in front of a cop; I saw two transients pass with a cardboard sign that read "Spare some green on St. Patrick's Day?" But really, it was all a sunny blur. It seems that the rain is past--at least for a little while, there may be another sprinkle or two here and there--and that sun will be blaring straight through November.

Everything's settled into a dull pain, even though a coworker slapped a green jello tequilla shot on my desk. It's in a Donald and Daisy Duck Dixie cup. Daisy's giving me the come-hither stare, but I can see the ring of noxious neon green just above the lip of the cup, and it doesn't look too appetizing. The stench of Cuervo is unbearable. Still, I've been picking at it from time to time. I need food and a blood transfusion; then I'll be ready for round two.