My Secret Admirer.

I'm hungover.

My head hurts, my guts feel rotten and the only salvation is a Vitamin Water and the floor in front of the television. At this point, I'm not good enough for the comforts of a couch. The couch is above me, literally and figuratively, and for me to even consider lying on top of it is an even bigger sin that the ones I've committed the night before. The floor is where I belong. It is my penance.

All details aside, I'm in a bad place. My body, polluted. My money, gone. The guilt alone has caused me to denounce everything I took part in to create this current anguish, but fuck, give it a day and half, I'll be right back at it. I suck.

A friend of mine once called hangovers "The Fear." That slightly depressed, worried and confused feeling. Angry about what you spent, annoyed at ruining an entire day, befuddled and lost and cloudy and upset. It's a twenty-four hour cocktail of regret and sorrow in it's most purest of forms.

Naming it "The Fear" is spot on.

Good call, Friend I Just Made Up.

Will I ever drink again? Yeah. In this current state, I'm even shocked to admit that. But you can't stop a cheetah from being cheetah, am I right or am I right? Does that make any sense whatsoever?

Go-to cures usually involve hot coffee, greasy hamburgers or restless sleep. As we all know, there is no cure, but those specific routines are my only fallback. Unfortunately, my fallback sucks and literally never helps. In fact, I'm sure it makes me feel worse. I will do a lot of moaning and groaning, yes. I will curl up into a ball and rock myself slowly into a sad and sweaty mess. I will receive a fuzzy bear in a leather jacket, complete with peanut-butter chocolates and a helping of sweet, Valentines's Day love.

We got this in the mail last week, and only now have I fully investigated it. I mean, I knew what was inside (I, of course, opened it immediately) but I didn't dig too deep. It was as if I was cool with a simple teddy bear, accepting graciously with a nod and a thank-you. Oh, yeah. There's a bear inside. Duh.

See? This ain't some regular bear, no sir. My Secret Admirer sent a Bad-Ass Bear. Wrapped in a tight leather jacket (could be faux, but we're not here to judge) with balled up fists and a stare that's just begging for a fight. It's exactly like me, minus the whole "begging for a fight" thing. I'm too pretty for that. And I have weak bones. And don't know how to fight. There, I said it, alright?

This helps. This aids in the process of becoming human again. A single tear will fall from my robotic eye, the camera will pan back revealing that, yes, I am an android but with hard, honest human emotions. Then I will blow up in a ball of fire. ARTSY FARTSY.

Oh, and before we go on, I'd like to point out that this gift was sent to me and only me. Serious Secret Admirer shit right here. Jimmy is not mentioned once, nary a word on poor, old Davey. I feel honored, with an overwhelming sense of finality in never-ending band arguments -- I am the favorite of the three Calabrese brothers.

Suck it, Jimmy and Davey. The both of you's.

And I'll refrain from mentioning who this is from, out of respect and privacy and the inability to read cursive.

Strapped to our buddy's chest is a heart-shaped box full of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, which, arguably, is the best candy ever made. The fusion of peanut butter and chocolate is not to be toyed with, especially in a Valentine's Day gift. It means it's extra special, or outstandingly discounted since it's two months past Valentine's Day.

Oh, and along with the prize is multicolored packing peanuts. Safety and beauty, all in one. I can't remember if I've ever seen brightly colored foamy stuff before, but I'm glad I did today. I can already feel the headache melt away as I stare into a rainbow of crinkly, crunkly Cheese Puffs.

Bad-Ass Bear, although pants-less, is wearing a customized shirt of what I can only assume to be of me. My widow's peak does reach down between my eyebrows and my chest is wrinkly and or stinky (are those "stink lines?") And those were just the subtle hints, people. My eyes really are lazy/crossed and I'm missing all but two teeth. My God, it's like looking into a mirror.

Thanks, Secret Admirer. My belly is starting to simmer and I've stopped muttering to myself about how I hate my life. The guilt is being absolved, the remorse and grief are but a distant memory.

I feel tons better.

Now send me more stuff!