Hangover Bank

If my hangover was a Smiths album, it would be "Louder Than Bombs." Seriously... it feels like someone cracked open the top of my skull and started a dog fighting ring in there. It hurts, I tell ya!!!

Me having said hangover however did lead me this morning to an interesting discovery: You know where it's kind of awesome to be hungover? The bank. No foolin'! It's really quiet and kind of chilly; the only constant sound is the soft "flit-flit" of money being counted and the tellers all talk in low, soothing tones. It's sort of like a womb, if your mother was a branch of JP Morgan Chase. The one thing that sucks though is that they won't let you lay your head down on the faux-marble counter, despite the fact that it would feel super-amazing. Gets them all riled up, like it's an act of aggression or something. Please. You can barely keep your eyes open and it's taking all the internal fortitude you've got to not barf in the deposit slip cubby. But they don't get that... the old security guard starts waving his gun around and then the sirens go off and one of those fake packets of money filled with blue paint explodes all over you and the next thing you know, you're sprinting down the street with your arms full of twenty dollar bills being chased by Arlington's finest SWAT team (a guy named Duane and his dog, Pooter).

Anyway, what I'm trying to tell you is that I robbed a bank this morning. I need a hideout!!! Also some Tylenol, because getting shot at by the cops is so NOT good for a hangover.