(no subject)
Ray made a terrible judgment call last night and thought he could moderate his own drinking when in the company of Garion of Riva, Antillar Maximus, Belar, and just possibly one or two other heavy hitters. This, as they say, never ends well; Ray did try to keep his water and electrolyte levels up while the drinking was going on, but that really only does so much. His head is absolutely pounding this morning.
(Yes, it's afternoon. Hush. Let the man have his delusions.)
What isn't making it any better is that he apparently got hold of a very large roll of butcher paper and an engineer's mechanical pencil or seventeen last night while he was sozzled and started scribbling. Ray's reactions to large amounts of alcohol are best described as 'interesting', you see. Some people sing. Some people get belligerent. And some people cover meters and meters and meters and meters of paper with mathematical equations they honestly and truly do not recognize. He's done that before, but last time it was just the walls and ceiling of his room- and it was when he was still thirty-three. He's had a lot more time pass since then and it appears to have influenced... um... something. All he's sure about is that while a few of the maths look aggravatingly familiar, he's pretty much being kicked in the head from the inside by a family of angry wildebeests and he'd kinda like it to stop before he has to try and decipher anything else.
"Food, please," he asks of the Bar before sitting down to glare at the butcher paper.
(Yes, it's afternoon. Hush. Let the man have his delusions.)
What isn't making it any better is that he apparently got hold of a very large roll of butcher paper and an engineer's mechanical pencil or seventeen last night while he was sozzled and started scribbling. Ray's reactions to large amounts of alcohol are best described as 'interesting', you see. Some people sing. Some people get belligerent. And some people cover meters and meters and meters and meters of paper with mathematical equations they honestly and truly do not recognize. He's done that before, but last time it was just the walls and ceiling of his room- and it was when he was still thirty-three. He's had a lot more time pass since then and it appears to have influenced... um... something. All he's sure about is that while a few of the maths look aggravatingly familiar, he's pretty much being kicked in the head from the inside by a family of angry wildebeests and he'd kinda like it to stop before he has to try and decipher anything else.
"Food, please," he asks of the Bar before sitting down to glare at the butcher paper.