Sorry for the dearth of blogging lately. I've had lots of thoughts, but have been more or less satisfied to keep them in my head. This has been my last week of work, and although I thought I did nothing here, I managed to uncover a lot of things that need doing prior to my departure. I'll probably break my ban on weekend blogging and update soon.

So today is my last day at this godforsaken job, and my co-workers took me out on one of their patented 10-hr long happy hours last night, and I therefore wish that I was dead.

Boy oh boy.

In honor of my current condition, I am going to reprise something I posted a while back; namely, the best description of a hangover in the English language. From Lucky Jim by Kingsley Amis:

He lay sprawled, too wicked to move, spewed up like a broken spider-crab on the tarry shingle of the morning. The light did him harm, but not as much as loking at things did; he resolved, having done it once, never to move his eyeballs again. A dusty thudding in his head made the scene before him beat like a pulse. His mouth had been used as a latrine by some small creature of the night, and then as its mausoleum. During the night, too, he'd somehow been on a cross-country run and then been expertly beaten up by secret police. He felt bad.