A Drunkard's Delight

Writing from the point of view of the man depicted below.

Today I experienced the absolute worst way of greeting a hangover. With a pounding head and a gut feeling like a rip tide, I awoke to a cacophenous clatter of bottles falling to the ground. Unsure of where I was, and having no recollection of how I arrived in such a perdicament, I immediately searched for an unopened bottle among those piled around me. This was my daily ritual ever since I became a high-functionning alcoholic. To my surprise, I found four, and drank the room-temperature liquid as quickly as possible. My attempts to cure my hangover did not prevail; feeling nauseous already, I purged the rapidly ingested alcohol, as well as last night's meal. As my hands began to quiver, my mood declined exponentially. My hope was that my friend who I was partying with would slip on the patch of regurgitated fermented beverages I had procured. Although this aspiration did not come to fruition, the "BOB WUZ HERE" and "Party Time" inscribed in permanent marker on his forehead lightened my mood slightly -- seemingly being the only sign that the previous night was entertaining, since I remember nothing else.