It’s not the incoherent logs from ill-advised 3AM IM conversations; it’s not the fragmented memories of bizarrely inexplicable acts; it’s not the fear that photographic evidence of these acts may yet exist; it’s not even the pain in my head and the nausea in my gut all day today.
It’s the fact that I let myself get such a whopper of a hangover that hurts. It’s my pride that really stings. I hate the feeling that I’ve been incapacitated by my own miscalculation.
Here’s to a brutal workout tomorrow.