Good Morning,

I can see that you’re trying to wake up, but the light is too bright for your poor eyes. What a pity. I’d almost feel bad for you, if I hadn’t done that intentionally. You’re awake now, and your head is pounding. That’s my doing! You’re dehydrated (and forgot to leave a glass of water by the bed when you stumbled home last night). That’s me too! Nauseous? Headachy? Shaky? Check, check, check! All my little tricks (always the same ones, but hey, they work so well!). And yes, I’m smug about it. I’m a hangover, that’s my job. You have fun partying, and as soon as I see that bottle come out, I get excited. Because I take a malicious pleasure out of making you pay for it the next day.

When I visit, you should accommodate me. I know you always have a big day planned: two meetings, ten hours of homework you were definitely gonna do earlier this weekend, and some television. Blah, blah, blah, you can do it all later! Now that I’m here, I really just want to spend three hours eating breakfast food. Or better yet, get me the biggest burger you can find, and we’ll eat it in bed (I’ve got a huge appetite, you know, and I never pay attention to your latest diet). I know this will make you feel sick, but you can’t get sick of me.

I’m inevitable. Unavoidable. I know that last night you tried to be responsible, eating before you went out and drinking lots of water. Drinking water? Really, that hurts. Come on. If you really wanted to be responsible, you would slowww it dowwwn with the drinking. But no. You know how you party, and you know it’s not going to work. You can’t get rid of me, so why are you continuing to try to be productive? Fighting doesn’t work. You’re just gonna feel worse.

Me and my buddy Procrastination, we hang around all week, waiting to make a heyday out of your weekend although he gets significantly more work from frantic college students during the week. Thank goodness we’re paying the rent together. The terrible twos, they call us. And Sundays are particularly fun, sitting around and watching you squirm as you realize there’s no weekend; left to hide behind. Seeing you struggle with work while we loom behind your back is the highlight of our week.

But being ignored gets old fast. So what do I want? I want to be appreciated, and I’ll shove aside your schoolwork to do it. You don’t recognize my purpose. I’m here to teach you a lesson about consequences, and you need to live with it. The next time I come visit, embrace it. Throw away your plans. Stay in bed. Eat hash browns for thirty hours. Because resisting doesn’t do any good.

See you again next week,

Your Sunday Morning Hangover

Photo courtesy of Flickr