Hungovery

Hungover.
Very.
Hungovery.

If I were, I wouldn't have the wherewithal to write this.

(I wouldn't even have the wherewithal to come up with the word "wherewithal.")

Wherewithal.
Hallelujah.
Wherewithallelujah.

I've only been VERY hungover twice in my life, because after the first time, I swore I would never let it happen again, it was so horrible.

Then I forgot, hence the second time.

Forgetful.
Foolish.
Forgetfoolish.

Did you know, Savannah is one of the few places in the country where you can take a to-go cup of alcohol outside of a bar, legally?

I should have taken advantage of that law.

Because that would have taken me AWAY from the bar and its free drinks which would lead to the ultimate battle the next morning between my brain and my stomach, a painful battle over whether more fluids should be allowed in to replenish those lost (the brain's desire, in order to diminish the pain) or whether no fluid should ever be allowed to enter the body and stay there again (the stomach's desire, as it had been burned by certain fluids the night before).

Fluid.
Idiot.
Fluidiot.

So, let this be a lesson to you. Or to me, at least.

If you swear never to do something ever again, remember that you swore not to do it.

Especially if the the thing that you swore not to do is the sort of thing that would attack your capacity to remember even more in the future.

Memory.
Moratorium.
Memoratorium.