They’re busy holding a pounding head or a churning stomach, maybe an enlarged liver. Others are running for restrooms and aspirin. The day will be spent quietly — nursing bruised egos and trying to forget the antics of last night. Some are praying the police don’t call.
It’s New Year’s Day, boys and girls, otherwise known as the Day After. So I’ll keep this short and low-key. I don’t judge, but I do gloat. I’m hangover-free. If that sounds like bragging, it isn’t. It’s a sad admission: I’ve succumbed to sensible, a sure sign of age. Or else I’m bored with throwing up; I’ve never been much of a drinker.
Fine, I’ll be quiet now and tiptoe away. But I had to stop and wish everyone the kind of year where dreams really do come true. Now, you go on, crawl back under the covers. And don’t worry, you’ll be right as rain tomorrow — probably.
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