(no subject)
He woke up with a throbbing headache, and for once it wasn't because of a good time. Or a really, really bad time. It was primarily because of the obscene, tightly wound...bun his dreadlocks had been pulled into. For a moment, he thought something had happened and he'd removed his memories again to get away from it.
Unfortunately, like every truly bad night--the kind you actually did live to regret--the memories crashed over him a moment later with a suddenness that had him rolling out of his bed onto the ground with a groan. The groan could have been from the painfully constrictive sweats he'd fallen asleep in, and that might have pulled a muscle or two overnight for.
What the smeg happened?
He scrubbed at his face with the palms of his hands, before furiously undoing the knot that threatened to rip out all of his hair at once. He couldn't understand. He'd just...woken up crazy for three days. He'd thrown away his old clothes somewhere--his clothes!--eaten bland, boring things he couldn't even taste, and actually spent the day reading and then mulling over what he'd read. If he remembered correctly, the one time he'd done anything remotely interesting, he'd gone to the open bar and ordered a glass of wine.
Wine!
He thought he was going to be sick.
He shook his head, sitting up in the mess of tangled blankets, and massaged his temples, hoping to work out the strain and the pain that his abused dreads had inflicted upon him in protest.
Unfortunately, like every truly bad night--the kind you actually did live to regret--the memories crashed over him a moment later with a suddenness that had him rolling out of his bed onto the ground with a groan. The groan could have been from the painfully constrictive sweats he'd fallen asleep in, and that might have pulled a muscle or two overnight for.
What the smeg happened?
He scrubbed at his face with the palms of his hands, before furiously undoing the knot that threatened to rip out all of his hair at once. He couldn't understand. He'd just...woken up crazy for three days. He'd thrown away his old clothes somewhere--his clothes!--eaten bland, boring things he couldn't even taste, and actually spent the day reading and then mulling over what he'd read. If he remembered correctly, the one time he'd done anything remotely interesting, he'd gone to the open bar and ordered a glass of wine.
Wine!
He thought he was going to be sick.
He shook his head, sitting up in the mess of tangled blankets, and massaged his temples, hoping to work out the strain and the pain that his abused dreads had inflicted upon him in protest.