Turns out, Easter Sunday is as good a day as any other to work off a hangover. It’s just as easy to get lost in the sofa, grab the remote, and pray for death on Easter Sunday as it is on any other day. It’s just as easy for the Swedish women’s volleyball team to hold spiking drills in my cerebellum on Easter Sunday as it is on any other day. It’s just as easy to consume enough liquid to fill the Indian Ocean and not pee on Easter Sunday as it is on any other day. Yep, Easter Sunday is as good as any other day to work off a hangover.
Turns out, that’s not exactly true. Most Sundays, Easter or otherwise, are spent grocery shopping, cooking, and prepping for the week. All of this entails a skosh of planning and running around, which assumes the ability to concentrate and at least a facsimile of energy. I got bupkis.
Concentrate? Maybe if it involves Cote de Pablo’s ass and alluring, albeit feigned, accent—I’m watching the NCIS marathon. Beyond that, I’m having trouble following and grasping commercials. Energy? I can’t change channels without slumping into a coma. No doubt, it took me hours to hammer out this post. So this week’s getting off to a rocky start. But I wouldn’t change a thing. Last night was sublime; perfectly sublime. I ain’t making it up.
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