The Chronicles of Soggybottom

I was completely hungover this morning. The birthday glory faded and left me with a tarnished and throbbing skull while the sky had turned grey and the unseasonable warmth had left my world. It felt like someone had been sitting on my head all night, but they had done it with their clothes on and they were a fat, fat man. It was Andy Reid. It felt like Andy Reid.

While I tried to get my head to adjust to the pressure of the thinner atmosphere that standing up required it to exist in, the rest of the morning happened around me without my noticing. Apparently I dressed and groomed myself. I have no memory of this, although I do remember making my lunch. Anything that sucks so much while you feel like such shit has to be remembered. That's the definition of trauma. I have PTSD from making a ham sandwich while hungover. I am deceptively fragile.

This was fine though, because after waiting in the block-long line for the bus, I got on and discovered an empty seat. A hard plastic blue oasis for my bleary self. "Come, sit, recover..." it beckoned to me. A sole empty seat, with no elderly or children or disabled in sight. Just several people choosing not to sit. "Very well, today, I shall sit. For serendipity hath offered me a throne!" So I sat down. And after I sat down, the lady across from me goes "Oh that seat was wet!" Thank you. Thank you ma'am. I felt the mystery fluid seep into my butt. Do with that sentence what you will. I actually started to get up...but then I just surrendered.

And I've been surrendering ever since. I am Soggybottom. I've committed myself to an ideal. An uncomfortable, terrible, damp-butted ideal. SWEAR TO ME. By the way, one looks ridiculous when one attempts to dry one's ass with a bathroom hand-dryer. Trust me.