Staring deeply into the previous night’s bar tab, my tongue was nothing more than an abused piece of sandpaper searching hastily for saliva within the arid confines of my mouth. Had someone convinced me to drink Boones Farm out of an ashtray last night? I sat up promptly. My brain plummeted into my stomach, submerging itself in half digested Fireball whiskey and Sutter Homes minis, then immediately careened back into my skull ricocheting and vomiting poison into all of my nerve endings. I laid back down and the engulfing pain briefly subsided, I could feel my heart beating in my toes.  Today was going to be fucking hell.

It had taken everything in me to get dressed while resisting the persevering urge to boot. To evacuate everything that was in my body and start over. There wasn’t time for such a luxury; it was time for something else…the ultimate war of attrition. Riding on a stale, congested train that more likely than not smelled like wet goat. The thought of such an endeavor was dizzying in itself, not to mention what waited at the end of that horrible commute, eight hours of plowing through high importance emails with a god splitting headache and unpredictable bubble guts. The debilitating walk to the train only added to the dread which was quickly transitioning to fury.

I glanced briefly in my reflection in the glass at the Addison Red Line stop; the terrifying creature glanced back at me before mercifully averting its eyes. There in the middle of the station stood a transcendent douchebag that appeared to be handing out pamphlets to whatever chicken shit street fest was coming up that weekend. Fuck this guy. My ability to camouflage my subhuman state was nonexistent. As I approached he turned and faced me wholly. My hangover had apparently also robbed me of my depth perception as we stood unnaturally close. “Not today pal,” I snarled expelling a noticeable gust of sour morning breath that appeared to linger under his nose. Pal? Why the hell did I say pal? He stood paralyzed with confusion after several seconds of immeasurable puzzlement his face contorted into a sheepish diffusing smile. I could sense a sentiment of devastation having been rejected by such a horrid looking  specimen.

I shoved past him and walked toward the train, leaving a booze fueled eye stinger for him to reflect on, as I turned around it appeared he was shaking other passengers hands. He looked uncomfortable as he stood in my enduring stench. I briefly took my ear phones out and overheard two people discussing how crazy it was that Rahm Emanuel was shaking hands at the train stop. Through my bleary eyes I didn’t even recognize the insect. I was happy to know that even through an insufferable, delirium inducing hangover, my instincts could still sense the presence of a crook.