You come around sometime in the early afternoon, judging by the slant of early Spring light filtering in through the crack in your blackout curtains. Your phone confirms that it is twenty after one, and your stomach reminds you that the last thing you had to eat, while a fine meal, did not actually come with any sort of nutritional value. You lurch into a sitting position, muffle a burp, and swing your feet over the side of the bed. You feel around on the carpeted floor for your custom slippers (they promised arch support, but so far they have seemed to just be very expensive flip-flops) and, having located them, make your way to the bathroom.
You piss away the remainder of the pitchers you had last night. It comes in a flood, like heavy rain, like the onset of warmer temperatures after a long winter. You wipe, you flush, you wash your hands. You study yourself in the medicine cabinet mirror and notice how bloodshot your eyes are this morning. Fishing out your eye drops, you blink away the majority of the redness, and get to brushing the film off your tongue and teeth. Dragon breath is nothing to admire, though you do gag a bit while getting at those hard to reach places. A little vomit is worth a clean mouth, surely. You spit, you rinse, you spit again.
In the kitchen, you squint against the bright light coming in the slatted window blinds. There is no hangover, thankfully, but it is still rude to have to look at so much sunlight so early in the day. You grab a dirty glass from the sink (but not too dirty) and fill it from the tap. Fumbling in the cabinet overhead, you get out the assorted pills of various sizes and strengths that keep you from wanting to die on a minute-by-minute basis, and down the handful in one protracted gulp. Another belch, this one far more rancid, reminds you that an empty stomach is a sour stomach and you move to the fridge. It is depressingly bare in the ways that provide healthy bodies with what they need to grow, but it is well stocked in blue Gatorade and half of a leftover Reuben from your deli lunch a few days back. It passes the sniff test, as far as corned beef and cabbage can at least, and you toss it into a ready plate in the microwave, setting it to nuke it just to the point of being far too hot to eat.
You twist off the annoyingly orange cap and tip back the thirty-two ounce bottle, chugging loudly. Your gulps seem to echo off the walls, but it could just be the poor acoustics of Spartan decoration playing tricks on you. Or an empty mind. Either way, the bottle is soon nothing but a few drops, and my god can you burp. This one lasts out the five seconds left on the timer, and you wipe the excess from your chin as the beeping begins, letting you know that it’s time to scald your mouth.
The rye has gone mushy, but the dressing is still on point, if not this side of molten. You suck cool air as you cradle the burning bite of sandwich in the hollow under your tongue, willing thermodynamics to hurry up and be done with it already. You do not so much chew as swallow whole, like a bird or a shark or a very lazy human that does not want scalded gums today. By the time you polish off the half, it is almost cool enough to use as a thermal pocket insert, but now you’re full, if not still terribly gassy, and the corned beef and cabbage rumbles about in your gut, promising a fragrant afternoon. Another rumble hits, and another, and you double-time it to the can where you have just the most reekingly foul beer shit. It is not loose, but it is not firm, and it smells as if something died deep inside you, long ago, and also at some point it was on fire. You fight the chemical warfare battle with a heavy spray of some Fresh Linen, and now the room smells delightfully of a horrid shit and fabric softener. You sigh, give yourself a courtesy flush, and rest your elbows just above your bare knees. It is going to be a while. You wish you had left a book in here. As it is, you are just going to watch the tile grow blacker with the mildew you cannot be fucked to scrub off and just ride it out.