My hangover always swings at anything high and away that comes its way.
My hangover doesn’t give a shit about my high cholesterol levels, especially when my hangover wants country-fried steak drenched in gravy and shame.
My hangover demands constant acknowledgment and attention.
My hangover grew up, lives and thrives in a world of imaginable yet unpleasant pain.
My hangover is indifferent about the idiocy and hypocrisy of greasy, philandering politicians.
My hangover would bang your mom, but it’s not in the mood.
My hangover denies everything, even good things.
My hangover went to church once, but it vomited and was promptly asked to leave and never return, a request it has taken very, very seriously.
My hangover hates to be pigeonholed or typecast, and so although it is never unexpected, it is always in some way unpredictable.
My hangover is seriously contemplating a change.org petition re: legislation forcing Chik-Fil-A to be open on Sundays. (You know, since they believe in legislation that doesn’t allow marriage equality.)
My hangover persists for up to 48 hours.
My hangover is generally pensive.
My hangover feels perpetually misunderstood and doesn’t know how to properly express itself to people who are unable to readily empathize with it.
My hangover generally prefers Wendy’s over McDonald’s, but is open to extensive, intense debates on the topic.
My hangover loses power after I rub one out, but comes back with a vengeance about an hour later.
My hangover looks at a box of a dozen donuts as a challenge.
My hangover looks at a bottle of multivitamins as a threat.
My hangover laughs at the previous evening’s happenings, even though it often has a vague-at-best sense of what truly transpired, sort of like how the characters in LOST often had flashbacks to moments they hadn’t thought about in a long, long time.
My hangover feels rage re: 9/11 Truthers.
My hangover and I both agree that Lena Dunham’s recently released book was an OK read, and that Dunham did not molest her younger sister when they were children.
My hangover has seen me get off more in the past decade than My Drunk Passenger.
My hangover has seen more episodes of The X-Files than you can even fathom, and my hangover has some very interesting theories re: The Smoking Man and also the on-again/off-again romance of Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully.
My hangover is right behind you. Don’t move. It won’t hurt you if you don’t move.
My hangover uses words like “cogently” and “anthemic” in an effort to appear more intelligent than it is.
My hangover still appreciates Brand New.
My hangover is not going to jail for you or for anybody, man.
My hangover bombed both the SATs and ACTs but did pretty well on the essay portion of the SATs, if it says so itself.
My hangover is ornery.
My hangover has still not forgiven Chris Brown.
My hangover forgets how to calculate tips or do even the most rudimentary of math that goes beyond counting on fingers and toes.
My hangover knows my darkest secrets.
My hangover just missed watching the New York City Marathon AGAIN.
My hangover eschews confrontational conversations, puts them off until a time to-be-determined.
My hangover does not respect my Google Calendar or alarm clock.
My hangover knows what you did last summer but cannot clearly remember until about 3 PM on a “good day.”
My hangover believes that French fries dipped in mayonnaise are all the therapy a person could ever really need.
My hangover can’t cook for shit.
My hangover feels a deep empathy for Charlie Brown re: trying to kick a football.
My hangover has never blamed President Obama for its shortcomings, and believes that Hillary Clinton would be a great next POTUS for whom to not blame for its shortcomings.
My hangover has never been in a fistfight.
My hangover is mostly a nihilist, unless egg rolls are involved. If egg rolls are involved, my hangover will believe in anything you tell it to.
My hangover misses Surge more than most Millennials.
My hangover is soothed only by cloudy skies and artificially-recorded thunderstorm Spotify tracks.
My hangover literally can’t even right now.
My hangover fights the good fight.
My hangover feels it is very compatible with all-you-can-drink mimosas and all-you-can-eat eggs benedict.
My hangover did not even come close to winning the “Most Likely to Succeed” superlative.
My hangover does not believe in mainstream conspiracy theories because it already knows that they are all almost definitely maybe true.
My hangover is indecisive.
My hangover dares Chinese buffets to kick it out of the restaurant after three hours, and it does not go down without a fight.
My hangover does not take aspirin seriously. At all.
My hangover does not like to wear pants.
My hangover consistently produces the gnarliest morning breath.
My hangover chugs Gatorade like it is an all-star athlete.
This is my hangover. There are many like it, but this one is mine. My hangover is an unwelcome acquaintance. It is a sort of big part of my life, which makes me wonder if maybe I should stop drinking so much. I must master my hangover as I must master my life. My hangover, without me, is useless. Without my hangover, I am pretty OK, I guess. My hangover and I forget the rest of this speech.
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