A drowned pig.

Morning and the flat metallic ache of a minor hangover. Its dull glow from the back of my head seems to light everything in an ugly contrast.

An insulting pageant no longer convincing, stripped of its bravado. This dressed up pig is now just a pig. Decoration seems to make it more hideous.

My stomach turns, waking up with me reluctantly.

I try to brush the catshit taste out of my mouth, try to suck my eyes back out of the muck filling my head.

Moments of clarity like this are hard to swallow, but they do their job, if you can keep your unreliable gorge down. Just keep it down, I tell myself. Fight that all too poignant sense of mental nausea. Keep it down.

I know I shouldn't be doing this. This is a bad idea. You are a bad idea.

Heartache and uncertainty. But I'll live.