I just woke up.

I’m not sure if the room is literally spinning or if my inability for my eyes to focus on a single object has caused my entire body to feel like I’m suspended upside down on a Six Flags roller coaster ride.

The clock on the night stand reads two in the afternoon. The clock on my phone reads that it’s three. I’m hoping that it’s three because the sooner this day is over, the better.

My dog is curled up on the bed next to me. I should take him out but I’m convinced he’s already peed somewhere else in the house.

I need water. My mouth is a dry bitter tasting wasteland in which my tongue no longer seems necessary.

My stomach cringes at the very thought of tequilla. Even typing that word makes me want to jolt to the bathroom, but I can’t jolt for anything. I can’t move. I don’t have legs. At least, I don’t think that they work.

All I can do is lay here and type, and I can’t look at the screen because the words make me sick. And I’m not typing because I want to type. I’m only doing it because I made a pact with myself and whoever might be reading this that I would write one observation everyday. And right now, I wish I never made that pact. Right now I wish that my website was called “365 observations except for when I’m sick, hung over, or don’t feel like typing dot com.” — But it’s not.

So as I lay here in bed contemplating whether I should just sleep out the rest of the day or simply die — my mind remains transfixed on one thought — I can’t believe that this is what happens when I go to a Neil Diamond concert.

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