This routine is getting old. Any time I have left over from pulling all-nighters, slaving away for next to nothing and napping to the soundtrack of chickens is spent drinking, yet my body still has not learned to cope. I fell into bed the night before last expecting a typical Sunday-morning grade hangover. I was mistaken. Plans of productivity? Shot. Dreams of sleeping in? Ruined. Fantasies of amazing breakfast creations? Destroyed. Thanks for wrecking the better part of my weekend, melon flavored SKYY. I knew I was taking a risk with you; I had no idea I’d waste the next 12 hours forcing water and ibuprofen down my throat.

Tomorrow’s Forecast: Spread the word: Alcohol is only on-sale for one reason. And it’s not so you can afford bin candy.