Why is it that every day after a day of abstinence is a living hell, while days after which days during which I've indulged sweep by agreeably?

Take today. Yesterday, I had but a couple of short ones. My sleep was interrupted by all kinds of bizarre dreams, including one number in which I was reading a newspaper advertisement that said "Gay? HIV Positive? Hate yourself; we hate you too!" And a bunch of other really weird visions that I won't describe right now.

I sprang out of bed, as chipper and light on my feet as I've been in years, but once I got into the city the shit began raining down. Almost literally. I was coming up the stairs onto the main drag in town when some bus or cab or something whizzed by and rained a bucketful of slush down on my head.

Things didn't get any better at work. I spent the morning putting out minor brush fires. What worried me most was the realization that I was missing a certain cartoon strip because I had neglected to send the cartoonist a gag a couple of weeks ago. This troubled me for two reasons:

1) Am I really so drunk that I can overlook such a thing as giving instructions to a cartoonist?
2) Am I actually being paid good money to come up with jokes for a facking cartoon strip? (Hellooo Jane; how about these creative professions?!)

Oh, by the way, the title of this post refers to . . . uh, I forget. Crossing the line from sobriety to drunkenness, or something like that.

Kev