So I realized upon waking this morning that perhaps liquor is not the best way to celebrate a birthday. That's one of the dangers of living in a town where everybody knows everybody: everybody wants to buy you a drink on your birthday. And no one likes being told no.
It occurred to me as someone placed a glass (not a shot, but a fucking water glass) of Grey Goose in my hand that perhaps it was time to stop. But alas, the dye was cast. And not even some preventative Taco Bell on the way home could stop the hangover train barreling my way.
I spent a good deal of time today lying in bed and the rest of my time declaring my arrival at death's door. Fuzzy was less than amused. But I'm feeling better now. I decorated the tree and there's some split pea soup on the stove for tomorrow's dinner, so perhaps I won't die. I think 25 is going to be a good year.
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