Could be, though in the purity of my worship of ethanol that might be wrong. If eleven or twelve shots of vodka chased by a couple of beers are a feather I wonder about the nature of a hammer.
The morning is touch and go, though do you know I don't get hang overs anymore. I just can't figure out who I am. It's something between nuclear war and wanting to lay down and let monkey business spin away.
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