I wake up and wonder if my body is even hydrated. They say the human body is 80% water, but it doesn’t feel like it. I scan my surroundings because I don’t know where I am. My head is pounding. My clothes are wrinkled. I guess I blacked out again.

Water is my best friend. I splash my face and look in the mirror. My raccoon and blood shot eyes stare back at me. An unrelenting sadness strikes me as I realize I don’t have any more beer to starve off the impending hangover. The Vodka bottle is empty and the wine is missing.

I stagger to my computer to see my new messages. The music is still playing, it’s a song by Ya Boy called “I Don’t Know Anything”. How fitting. The keyboard is on the floor, and five empty cans litter my desktop. One of my messages says, “what are you talking about? I can’t understand you, sweetie”. Another says, “you’re such an asshole”. I scroll up to read why, but I can’t understand my mishmash of words because of the spelling errors. I must have been drunk… again.

Another browser tab is open. Perky tit teen porn. Way to go, Nick. Some things don’t change, even when you’re shitfaced drunk. The area around my computer reeks of stale beer and urine. Why urine? Because the drunk idiot was to lazy to find a toilet to pee in so he used the side of the garage instead. I guess I was that drunk idiot.

I go back upstairs to retrieve the phone. I press the “play” button on the answering machine. First message is from a telemarketer. Skip. Second message is from a bill collector. Before they can finish the last syllable of my last name I press Skip. Next message, “you’re such an assho—. Skip that, too. No use listening to what I already know.

I stroll to the fridge and look inside. Bologna and left over Taco Bell. Great. I grab a Smart Water instead. I laugh to myself and say, “at least the water is smarter than me”. I think it’s funny, but then again the way my life has turned out is funny to most people. I guess being a writer isn’t as glorious as I imagined it would be.

One of my empty beer bottles is tipped over. It’s a Molson. How I got a Molson is a mystery I’m sure God doesn’t know, but on the back of the label it says, “Just Happy To See You”. I’d say the same if it were full.

I look around my living room. It’s empty again, no one is home. I’m alone. I’d be lonely but my stomach hurts, and the pain of not eating for two days takes away from the feelings of loneliness.

Thoughts of last night, or early this morning ricochet through my head. The girl I really like told me something I didn’t like. Not because I couldn’t handle it, but because my preconceived notion of who she was became tarnished. She went from an ‘is’ to a ‘was’, and I went from a great guy to an asshole. Oh well. Life goes on. Happiness is not in my future because alcohol is my roommate and he doesn’t let me go out and play with my friends. He wants me all to himself. It’s his way or else. He tells me, “go ahead, Nick. Have another drink. I’ll be here with you when everybody else leaves you”. Sounds like a wager to me.

I mutter out loud, “damn, this nigga needs an intervention”, then I realize I’m talking to myself again. The house is still empty and I’m still hungry. And my head hurts.

I sit down at the computer because it has become my addiction, aside from the booze, of course.
The music is still playing, “I don’t know anything… at all…I’m lonely..”.
I have a few computer-related jobs but I’m too woozy to focus on anything but getting another drink. See, I have to drink to make the hangover go away, otherwise I’ll be in epic misery for the next 12 hours. It’s Thursday so I’m broke until tomorrow. I count my pennies. 47 cents. Not enough for my next fix.

I guess it’s time to face the music. I look at the computer and see my pale reflection in the monitor and fire up my favorite social networking site. The blue logo blocks out my eyes. I feel much better now. Now I can be anyone I want to be, just me and my hangover together, a tandem team of depression reunited at last.