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hangover leaving before late afternoon. It has teeth and cruel hangovery hands that are less than gently clenching my stomach, engendering an argument over which end of me is most likely going to be needing to evacuate the evils of the evening before. There are good odds it could be both at once. It’s a finger-in-all-pies sort of hangover.
    How do I get myself in these situations?
    My phone chirps with a text. Tim.
Hope you’re feeling OK :-)
    Prick.
    Just chipper
, I text back. Even texting is painful and nausea inducing. I fish through cupboards, and drawers, until I find something strong for the pain. I manage to keep it down. Molly’s waiting, eyes lit with a weary impatience, to be let out the back door. Opening it only lets in more of that brutal morning light. I wince, leave the door open for the dog, and make the trek to the bathroom.
    Oddly enough Molly follows me. I shrug at her. “Suit yourself.” There’s blood in the bathroom. On the walls; a little on the mirror. I wrinkle my nose at it. Molly sniffs at the walls, doesn’t bother licking them. This ectoplasmic blood is mildly toxic. The first time she encountered it, gobbling down what she obviously thought was a marvelous, if peculiar, free feed, she had diarrhea for two days. Now
that
was pleasant for the both of us. Whenever there’s an increase in Stirrers this happens. These sorts of portents come with the job. I do my best to ignore the sanguine mess. Cleaning is for post hangover.
    The shower, alternating hot and cold, helps a little. I even manage to think about Lissa, wondering where she is and how horrible that state of limbo must be. Her having been a Pomp at least explains some of the why of it. She’s got the know-how. Though I don’t understand how she’s managing—but maybe she isn’t, maybe she was pomped last night. I finish my shower with that disturbing thought, and reach for a towel. The movement sets my head off again. It’s as though the shower never even happened, except I’m dripping wet.
    This is hell, self-inflicted or not. I stand still for a while, taking slightly pathetic little breaths. Then get dressed, moving like an old, old man in a particularly didactic anti-alcohol advertisement.
    Molly barks from the backyard. I stumble out, and she’s there with her mini-football in her mouth, wanting a game. One look at me and she changes her mind, dropping it to the ground with an expression that breaks my heart.
    “Sorry, girl,” I say.
    I step back from the door, into the kitchen and I consider breakfast, and then ruefully laugh that idea off. Besides, I’ve run out of time. I fill a bottle with tap water.
    Molly isn’t too happy to come back inside, but she does. I pat her on the head, tell her how sorry I am, that I’m such a lousy fella, and make a mental note to take her for a long walk tonight, no matter how awful I feel.
    People go on about the quality of light in Brisbane. Whatever it is, there is far too much of it today. My sunglasses only cut it down by the barest fraction; the migraine ignites again. If I had a better excuse there’s no way I’d be going in today. But I don’t. I still have all my limbs, and I’m not dead.
    Now, Derek and I have our differences, but there’s one thing I’m sure we’d both agree on: if I don’t make it to the office, I’m gone for sure. I look at my watch. 9:30.
    Half an hour’s cutting it fine, but I manage to catch the next train. It’s crowded for this time on a Wednesday morning. Someone’s mp3is up so loud that we’re all getting a dose of Queen’s “We Will Rock You.” That pounding rhythm is pretty much in time with my headache. I glare at the culprit but he isn’t looking in my direction.
    Derek’s been hunting for a reason to fire me for a while now, and I’ve never been a favorite of the other states’ administrators either. I do tend to get into a bit of trouble. I can’t help it if people don’t get my sense of humor. Really, how can that