Wrighter XIV

There is a symphony slowly building in my head, dark and foreboding, increasingly dissonant until it is pure hellfire cacophony. French horns squeel ungodly tinny reveries and the cello becomes my irregular heartbeats. The sheer joy of waking to another day is not so subtly shattered by my brain trying to process the river of gin which lulled me to sleep. Like a violin made of gold carefully rosined then used to bash the back of my skull.
Maybe hangovers are truly why we drink. The reminder that something about our life choices made us think that much alcohol was anything but an unaware cry for help.
... Nope, it's getting drunk.