I don’t feel good this morning. It’s no different from most mornings. I usually feel like ****, just different varieties of it.

            Sometimes I get too drunk the previous night and challenge my own body to a game of how much more abuse it can handle. The next day I’m full of bruises and soreness has spread to every bone and joint in my body.

            Unfortunately, since I don’t have the blackout characteristics of my fellow heavy drinkers, I remember exactly what I did to feel this way.

            I don’t get hangovers. I get S.F.S., stupid **** syndrome.

            This was no different.

 I had been up for no more than ten seconds before I realized the reasoning behind my bruised left arm that I could barely move, my right leg that moved with a limp. And my sore head.

Last night, a woman friend of mine came over. Her name was Mariah.

Mariah and I had been decent friends for a while, only because she and I had traveled to the same places and had similar tastes.

It gave us a lot to talk about, but I’m interested in more than our conversation.

I’m interested in her figure, nice perky ****, beautiful brown eyes, and gorgeous brunette hair.

Mariah was a show stopper. I had been fortunate enough to get to see her quite a bit and hold conversation with her.

I might not be **** her, but most men would kill just to talk to her like I do.

Any way, she was rambling on about her time in New York City. She just came back from her trip yesterday and decided to run over to my place to talk about it since I went there last year.

Praise to god that she’s not a boring girl. Most people, when they go to New York do all the tourist ****.

Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, Rockefeller Plaza, Empire State Building. All The boring **** they advertise to you as to why you should go.

Mariah told me when she arrived she immediately went to Greenwich village and did what I did when I went, bought some good New York smoke.

The right areas in New York have better smoke at better prices than you could ever get in Minneapolis.

Here it’s just shuag, okay shaug, and **** shaug..

Over there, it’s Columbian Red, AK-47, Purple Haze, and **** that looks like it was dipped in sugar.

Mariah then went on to describe on how she and her friends she went with got **** up out of there minds and partied for a good solid week with hippies, bums, and artists. She went on to say she brought some back with her.

“What kind?” I asked.

“Panama Red.”

“You are shitting me.”

“I **** you not. It’s in my car right now. Want me to go get it?”

“Like you have to ask.”

Mariah got up off the couch and wiggled her nice little **** in her jeans out the door.

I reached my hand under my coffee table and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.

I took two pulls before she got back in.

“Got a piece?” she asked.

I reached under my coffee table again and pulled out my bong and I poured some whiskey in it to rep lace the water.

“Always prepared aren’t you, James?”

“Like a bohemian boy scout.”

She reached into her pocket and pulled out what seemed like a dime bag.

She handed it to me. I broke it up. I always break it all up, it’s my O.C.D.

I put it in the bong and we lit up.

Within fifteen minutes I was feeling good.

It took Mariah another ten before she was at were I was, but she’d been having it for an entire week.

Five minutes later we just stared at each other and started laughing.