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Sleepy-faced, and disheveled hair stared back at me through the looking-glass. Blue eyes irritated, bloodshot, pupils dilated. What happened last night? How did I get home? Where is my phone? Turning the faucet, I let the water run cupping my hands into a bowl-like-shape to wash away the residue gunk off my face. My head, it throbbed, pounding, making my eyes feel like they were going to pop right out.

I felt like a zombie. I looked like some creature right out of a horror film ready to pounce like a cat on a mouse. Speaking of which… where is my cat? That thought was immediately interrupted when I tripped and was sent to the floor by something soft and fuzzy at my feet, leaping onto my chest with a purrr that could shatter glass – or at least it felt like it could. I needed to find something for my hangover and quick.

Something glistened at my night stand, from the limited sun that shines through the cracks. I rolled over and picked myself up with aid from my bed, stumbling my way over. A bottle of rum: that was all I needed. Picking it up, I took a swig making a sour face, the bitter drink burned down my throat like hot coffee. I groaned in pain as my stomach disagreed with my decision to drink more.

I took another swig in hopes of the burning sensation to go away, but instead it got worse. My legs gave in and I collapsed to the floor writhing, as my muscles tensed in anger. The bottle fell from my hand pouring out onto the shaggy carpet as my body felt limp to any other sensation around me. When I looked carefully, I noted the label. It wasn’t rum.

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