I hate hangovers

I'm hungover. There is a gremlin with a toothpick behind my right eye ball and I seem to be having problems remembering why I was debating vegetarianism with a fifty year old New Zealand business man. I also have thesis work to do and notes to review. I hate being hungover. I really do. I love being in the pub. I love the sociability of it. The meandering conversation. The satisfaction of patiently watching my Guinness settle. The warm glow of being with great friends and making new ones. The poetry of it all. But I would trade it all right now to blowtorch the gremlin and put an end to the horror. I know people who don't seem to suffer hangovers. I hate them. They have clearly made a pact with devil and are happy to renounce the light in favor of a life free of the slings and arrows of hangovers. In fact since were dealing with the prince of darkness here one can be sure than the hangover is being moved to some where else. That would be me. You see part of my theory is this. I'm given their hangovers. Thats why mine are always so bad. I suffer for the world. I'm like Jesus in that way. So as I walked bleary eyed and with a some what cantankerous aura about me across the university campus I found myself standing in the gym organizing a fitness test and regime. I could tell the fitness chap behind the counter with his superior health and ludicrous hair knew what condition my condition was in. He sat there reveling in his healthy glow and superior knowledge of the cardiovascular system while asking me what day would suit and had I ever had one done before. The cost of being fit may be to high...