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There are many ways to cure a hangover, but shame seems to be the most effective.

Waking up at 11:50 in the morning, I slowly sat up in bed and tried to make a plan for the day.

“You know what sounds great,” I thought to myself, “A bacon breakfast sandwich and some gatorade.”

Now, this was not a higher level defcom of hangovers. This was a mild, slightly dehydrated and craving greasy food kind of hangover.

The gas station is one mile from my apartment. I weighed my wardrobe options. If there were, indeed, still breakfast sandwiches at the gas station, the likelihood of running into someone I knew was relatively low, so staying in my pajamas and throwing a jacket over was a viable option. However, if they were out of breakfast sandwiches, I would have to traverse the parking lot and go into the grocery store in search of sustenance. The likelihood of running into someone I knew would exponentially increase and wearing pajamas might not be the best choice.

I decided to risk it.

Clad in my khaki and creme striped pajamas, I drove to the gas station. I was about to get out of my car when I saw one of my bosses fueling up his Prius. I ducked down in my car for a couple of minutes until I was sure he had left, then proceeded to enter the convenience store. I grabbed my gatorade and stared woefully into the sandwich case which held a lone cheeseburger.

“I was kind of hoping to get a breakfast sandwich.”

“Yeah, well, we usually don’t have those in the afternoon.”


I shuffled over to the grocery store, where I immediately ran into two people I knew.

“What are you shopping for?”

“Um, a breakfast sandwich.”

“It’s kind of late for that, isn’t it?”

“Yep, yep it is. I was just over at the gas station–I thought I could get one there. But they didn’t have any, so, yeah, I’m over here. In my pajamas. Heh.”

“Well, sorry you’re having a hard time finding your breakfast sandwich.”

“I’m sorry you had to see me in my pajamas.”

The deli had breakfast burritos, but not breakfast sandwiches. So I trekked over to the frozen food section. There I found frozen breakfast sandwiches: in either croissant or biscuit form, filled with either sausage or ham. But I wanted bacon. I momentarily toyed with the idea of buying bacon and deconstructing a frozen breakfast sandwich and adding the freshly cooked bacon. But this was a hangover remedy. It was supposed to be effortless.

I brought the spoils of my quest home and consumed them.

Next time, I thought, I will have bacon. I will have bacon.