Roast in hell, St. Patrick.
I woke up this morning wondering why small gnomes with pickaxes had invaded the frontal lobe of my brain. Then I remembered the row of Guinnesses purchased last night by some overly celebretory men and lined up before me. Then I remembered that those weren’t just Guinnesses, those were car bombs, each dark and creamy beer concealing within it a shot of pure death. What is it about a holiday that can turn an otherwise intelligent and rational girl into a sorority sister with a baffling hatred for her liver?
As I pray for mercy from a god I don’t believe in, I turn to reality for help. I pulled on my TAM4 Volunteer shirt, threw a book in my messenger bag, and am about to slink off to the coffeeshop for some tea and a muffin the size of my head. Anybody got any personal favorites when it comes to scientifically proven hangover remedies? I’ll let you know the results of my unblinded, completely biased test.