Follow the wise old rule -- cure like with like. The only thing that will bring you back to life is two glasses of vodka with something pickled and hot.
Pennsylvania/New York/Connecticut/Massachusetts/Rhode Island/Massachusetts/Rhode Island/Connecticut/New York/New Jersey/Pennsylvania
There are lessons about la vie boheme that are inherently forgettable in their nature. Life is far prettier that way. However, one, on occasion, remembers to forget, and there the trouble begins.
(This isn't the first hangover.)
Not only not get up, but it seemed to them they could not open their eyes, because if they were to do so, there would be a flash of lightning, and their heads would at once be blown to pieces. A heavy bell was banging in those heads, brown spots rimmed with a fiery green floated between their eyeballs and their closed lids, and to crown it all, they were nauseous, this nausea, as it seemed to them, being connected with the sounds of some importunate gramophone.
They tried to recall something, but only one thing would get recalled -- that yesterday, apparently, in some unknown place, they had stood with a napkin in hand and tried to kiss some lady, promising her that the next day, and exactly at noon, they would come to visit her. The lady had declined saying, "No, no, I won't be home!", but they had stubbornly insisted, "And we'll just up and come anyway!"
Who the lady was, and what time it was now, what day, of what month, they decidedly did not know, and worst of all, they could not figure out where they were. They attempted to learn this last at least, and to that unstuck the left eyelids of their left eyes. Something gleamed dully in the semi-darkness. They finally recognized the pier-glass and realised they were lying in their own beds. Here they felt such a throbbing in their heads that they closed their eyes and moaned.
It's called, thanks to the clever coining of Josip Novakovich, STATIC TRAVEL, and it flows beautifully from his apt analogy (or something) about drunkenness. Oh well. Sometimes one needs to throw forward progress to the wind and run about in circles for a few days. Call it a lesson in character. Acknowledging fate and consequences is like a guilty plea; it lessens the severity of the punishment you oughtn't have had to suffer, but that you dared not to be boring. Or better yet, predictable.
Aptitude, aptitude, aptitude. (Ah, centrality!)
It's very eighth grade. Or historic. Blazes of glory are static travel.
Speaking of circles, I refer you to the purely Italian sense of the word. Specifically, recall the numbers 8 and 5, a circle and a Canto. (One was; the other will be. That's 5 and 26 Cantos sitting in a tree, for the hounds on my trail.) Perhaps we ought to add Bolgia 2 -- to keep time with the circle -- to the preexisting Bolgia 8. You'll agree, coincidentally, that it's oddly appropriate. It lessens the pain of realisation. My heroes are still burning.
Static travel.
As of May 1, I will not only have finished the classroom portion of my undergraduate career, but also I will be celebrating five years of progress. I think one person knows what I mean.
Of five year plans, I think mine is one of the happier to go awry. Perhaps because I never lost sight of the essential circles.
I cannot impress these points upon you enough.
Oh, and then I found five dollars.
Moving his toes, he realised that he was lying there in his socks, passed his trembling hand down to his hip to determine whether he had his trousers on or not, but failed.
Is that the way it should be?
I think you know the answer by now.
THE GENERAL, THE PRINCIPAL, and THE BARTENDER
There are lessons about la vie boheme that are inherently forgettable in their nature. Life is far prettier that way. However, one, on occasion, remembers to forget, and there the trouble begins.
(This isn't the first hangover.)
Not only not get up, but it seemed to them they could not open their eyes, because if they were to do so, there would be a flash of lightning, and their heads would at once be blown to pieces. A heavy bell was banging in those heads, brown spots rimmed with a fiery green floated between their eyeballs and their closed lids, and to crown it all, they were nauseous, this nausea, as it seemed to them, being connected with the sounds of some importunate gramophone.
They tried to recall something, but only one thing would get recalled -- that yesterday, apparently, in some unknown place, they had stood with a napkin in hand and tried to kiss some lady, promising her that the next day, and exactly at noon, they would come to visit her. The lady had declined saying, "No, no, I won't be home!", but they had stubbornly insisted, "And we'll just up and come anyway!"
Who the lady was, and what time it was now, what day, of what month, they decidedly did not know, and worst of all, they could not figure out where they were. They attempted to learn this last at least, and to that unstuck the left eyelids of their left eyes. Something gleamed dully in the semi-darkness. They finally recognized the pier-glass and realised they were lying in their own beds. Here they felt such a throbbing in their heads that they closed their eyes and moaned.
It's called, thanks to the clever coining of Josip Novakovich, STATIC TRAVEL, and it flows beautifully from his apt analogy (or something) about drunkenness. Oh well. Sometimes one needs to throw forward progress to the wind and run about in circles for a few days. Call it a lesson in character. Acknowledging fate and consequences is like a guilty plea; it lessens the severity of the punishment you oughtn't have had to suffer, but that you dared not to be boring. Or better yet, predictable.
Aptitude, aptitude, aptitude. (Ah, centrality!)
It's very eighth grade. Or historic. Blazes of glory are static travel.
Speaking of circles, I refer you to the purely Italian sense of the word. Specifically, recall the numbers 8 and 5, a circle and a Canto. (One was; the other will be. That's 5 and 26 Cantos sitting in a tree, for the hounds on my trail.) Perhaps we ought to add Bolgia 2 -- to keep time with the circle -- to the preexisting Bolgia 8. You'll agree, coincidentally, that it's oddly appropriate. It lessens the pain of realisation. My heroes are still burning.
Static travel.
As of May 1, I will not only have finished the classroom portion of my undergraduate career, but also I will be celebrating five years of progress. I think one person knows what I mean.
Of five year plans, I think mine is one of the happier to go awry. Perhaps because I never lost sight of the essential circles.
I cannot impress these points upon you enough.
Oh, and then I found five dollars.
Moving his toes, he realised that he was lying there in his socks, passed his trembling hand down to his hip to determine whether he had his trousers on or not, but failed.
Is that the way it should be?
I think you know the answer by now.
THE GENERAL, THE PRINCIPAL, and THE BARTENDER