Hangovers are the worst. They cloud your head with haze and leave your mouth with the taste of metallic saliva. Your stomach feels like a war zone after the battle has been waged. And the worst kind of hangovers leave even bigger residue. The kind that has you, or me I should say, floored into bed at two in the afternooon, six episodes of Sex and the City into my Sunday.

Lying here is not so bad. It's actually asking me to do something I rarely do, which is relax. And though the circumstances beg for greener pastures, I can't help but to realize that this is a morning I have brought upon to myself. And it's not just the vodka that did it. It's the pushing of myself during the week. It's the constant reminders that I prescrive to myself that everything is okay, which at times is simply done to overcompensate with the fact that it's not. I mean, really. If it was all okay, would I be in bed right now on a sunny Sunday afternoon with my laptop and another disc of season three in the queue? Or would I be somewhere else?

Mexico?

The Grove?

My friend's couch, watching movies?

On a walk?

Boxing?

I don't know. I can't analyze anymore. It hurts.

Along with the rest of my body.

What about it?