NOT EVEN MID-WK DRUNK

It's Monday night and you already feel your ass in the ringer. Your response is to consume alcohol like they aren't gonna be producing the shit come morning. You drink whatever beers are left in the fridge. You hit the booze. A bottle of pink champagne hiding in the shadows isn't even safe. Soon you're watching Conan O'Brien with your eyes closed and realize he never was funny to begin with. Come morning the shame is a 1,000 feet thick. You may as well have fucked a cow in the living room and taken a few snapshots in the thick of things, so to speak. It's that fucking bad.

A big breakfast is not an option. It's a necessity. Consider it like surgery, but without the catheter and assless smock. If you had a ribeye crunched in foil like I did, some onions and potatoes and a few farm fresh eggs - straight from the coop in Middle GA - you're close to being able to compose a single sentence. But keep your mouth closed; it smells like a shitbox.