As I struggle with yet another pressure migraine, I think fondly (okay, no so fondly) on the scarce few mornings in which I have woken up hungover already praying for death. So, please enjoy this completely silly poem about being young, drunk, and not knowing what the hell a glass of water is.
Like most great adventures, days start to blur together. Wednesday was one of those sleepy days that all vacations have. It's the middle of the trip and you're trying to decide if you can take one more step or if you're going to dime for the personal driver you've always wanted and deserved. The pesky business of money is all that stops you.