It Must Have Been the Yoga

Normally, I can drink 2.5 pints of beer without particularly ill effect. But this morning, holy fuck. I was so hung over I couldn't remember words and I thought I was going to throw up.

It's probably not a smart idea to go to a sweaty yoga class, sweat out the very little bit of water you drank that day, drink a couple more smallish glasses of water with a salty dinner when you get home and then bike out to Westboro to have a very excellently fun time drinking beer with Jennifer while you listen to Dave Jackson spin tunes. We laughed a lot. And didn't drink water with our Beau's.

Oog.

But now the oog is mostly gone, and I'm sitting at my desk at work working on the high middle secret project and luckily I've had such a good 24 hours of my people (I dropped Jennifer off at her house, checked my email to find a lovely missive from my paramour, stumbled to bed and was only just falling asleep when Shelley came in. Then today, a lazy chat in bed with Shelley during which we figured out everything, a lazy breakfast with Eric during which I managed not to throw up but did keep rubbing my head.) that the HMS Project is actually not bringing me down too much or making me rail against the rudeness. Maybe I've just become inured to the project's contents.

Either way, I'm listening to Wolf Parade really loud, I'm cutting and taping and liquid papering and printing and looking forward to the ACO party tonight, for which I have a fabulous outfit, and where I will get to hang out with Shelley, Tracey, Jennifer, the Man of Science, Eric, and Aurèle. And about 295 other people looking to have a good time. I'm sure we'll find it somewhere, though for me, it will probably not be at the bottom of a pint glass.