The First Of Sure To Be Many Hungover To Varying Degrees Posts

Me: I think that may have been one too many glasses of wine last night.

Budding Alcoholism: Or one too just right many glasses!

Self-Loathing: And now you're hungover and fatter. Good show.

Ego: Actually, we lost weight. Three pounds worth.

Realism: And we're not all that hungover either.

Relief: To be honest, we're actually feeling pretty good, minor queasy feeling notwithstanding.

Self-Loathing: ...way to ruin my fun, guys. Way to go.

Naivete: Thanks!

Me: Plus, with even the minor effects of the hangover, Libido seems to have waned like an old man.

Libido: You wish. I'm going to make sure you stay harder than astrophysics to a dyslexic.

Inner Child: What does that mean?

Me: Just...never you mind.

Work Ethic: You know, you DO have that article that you need to work on. Like...actually work on since it will be paid.

Pragmatism: That will get top priority as soon as we have the contract signed and turned in. We're not going to work not under contract.

Work Ethic: That is the most...perfectly reasonable thing I've heard in a while, actually.

Me: Wait, what? What just happened?

Paranoia: You said something not using hyperbole! The feds are after us now!

OCD: THEY DON'T EVEN WASH THEIR TORTURE IMPLEMENTS AFTER KILLING! THEY LEAVE THE OLD BLOOD ON! AS A WARNING TO THOSE WHO WILL COME NEXT!

Anxiety: You know, you probably need medication for him.

Me: I probably need medication for a lot of things.

Latent Psychopathy: God, it's been too long since I've taken a bath in blood.

Me: Case in point.

Libido: You don't need medication for me!

Me: If I want to get rid of you, I do.

Pervert: Self-cuckolding. Kinky.

Writer: I suppose that would make you some sort of Shakespearean character. You could do worse, I guess.

Pedantry: Technically he would need to be dating someone and watch her having sex with another to be a cuckold. You're thinking more self-denial which is in fact a sexual fetish.

Inner Child: Feet-ish?

Me: Fet. FETish.

Inner Child: Boba...? Boba! WE CAN BE BOBA FETT?!

Me: What? No. If anything, we'd be more like Dog.

Inner Child: WE CAN BE A DOG TOO?! EXCITED!

Pervert: Well, less actual dog-etry and more dog-style, but probably.

Self-Loathing: Are you delusional?

Self-Delusion: Someone call me?

Zombie Romanticism: Blarrrrrrrgh.

Me: He's a lot more fun to be around now that he's dead.

Anxiety: Until he chomps into your nerve center in your brain that controls emotions.

Me: Hrm. Well...nope. Still more fun to be around.

Kleptomania: You know what we should do?

Me/Anxiety/Paranoia: Oh no.

Kleptomania: We should rob a bank!

Reckless Endangerment/Internal Sadism: YES!

Internal Sadism: This guy! This guy knows the score!

Sports Freak: What score? Which game? Are we missing a game?

Me: We're not robbing a bank.

Pragmatism: Fiscally, it might not be that bad an idea.

Me: Don't you start in on this.

Pragmatism: I'm just sayin'.

Paranoia: Now you've done it. Now you've done it. I bet right now we're getting the attention of every CIA agent in the state of Tennessee.

Me: CIA. In Tennessee. Why don't you just chill for a minute there, Paranoia?

Paranoia: AND BY CHILL YOU MEAN FREEZE IN AN ICE-COLD PRISON CELL IN MARYLAND!

Me: No. By chill I mean lay off the caffeine.

Gluttony: Bro, we haven't had much caf since the OD incident.

Internal Sadism: That was wicked.

Me: *sigh* And so it goes.

Music Lover: And so will you soon, I suppose!

Self-Loathing: Probably.