I hate mornings.

I think...I remember through blurred mind and half-closed eyes...I think I went to bed around 6:30 AM. I know I had something like three or four pina coladas and a margarita or two, all in the Big Glasses that're a little more than half the blender, and even though Eric's a bartender he mixes pretty damn good drinks. Took some Tylenol, even though I'm usually wary about taking Tylenol with alcohol (acute centrilobular hepatic necrosis, you know) and drank plenty of water. Ryken's foolproof hangover-prevention recipe. I could've stood to sleep a wee bit longer. Like...oh, maybe until two or three. Instead, Dad comes up at just a bit before noon, knocks on the apartment door. "I know you were up all night, but I really need help." What can you do? It's Dad? He got a new DVD drive for his computer, and when he put it in, the computer died. Differential diagnosis: static shock to the motherboard or chip. Not Good (tm). So we toted him out to A+ computers, which is our favourite place to go to buy computer parts, got there ten minutes to closing time, and found our friend the salesperson. This man remembers everything we bought from him. "Why didn't you bring it to me before buying new parts?" He's wonderful. We got it up and running, went back to sleep for an hour. Now the day's vanished into evening without me noticing it.