I woke up 10 minutes before I was due to be at work, wearing nothing but a pair of socks.

I slightly lifted my aching head from my pillow to figure out where I was and what kind of damage had been done to me, saw that I was naked in my bed, and I knew it was going to be a bad day. A very bad day, indeed.

I called work to croak out that I was going to be late and laid down again. I regained consciousness about an hour later and knew there was no way I could go to work. I called in again, and as I was explaining how sick I was, I started to gag from the effort and had to hang up and run to the bathroom.

My boss called. What happened, she asked? I overdid it. I'm dying, I explained. Okay, she said, I'll just tell everyone you're sick. Oh, make no mistake about it, I *am* sick, I told her.

Around 2PM I briefly considered checking into a hospital and going on dialysis to get some clean blood into my system.

Later, when the bathroom issues kicked in, I had to hold myself up in the shower and actually get ready for a black tie dinner if you can believe that shite. Oh yeah.

And I went. I pulled it together like a warrior. I smiled and air kissed.

I came home and stopped in my deli and the guy asked me if I was feeling better. Flabberghasted, I asked him what he was talking about. Last night, he said, you fell and hurt your knee...remember? Huh? Was I here last night, I asked? Are you sure?

I think he was talking about the night before. I'm looking at my knee and the scars don't look fresh. I definitely think it was the night before.

I see that someone has resorted to name calling. One weekend in New Orleans and she thinks she's Lou Reed. Please. I make Keith Moon look like Debbie Gibson. I just had an off-night last night.

No more happy hours. Happy Hour is not my friend.

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