My ideal hangover cure is a lazy afternoon at the park, sipping on a cold beer and talking with the squirrels. The squirrels are sentient, which they love to remind me by telepathically communicating to me that I have a drinking problem in the exact tone of my former roommates. The squirrels are eerie like that.
But the best part of hanging with the squirrels isn’t their acorn trails that always seem to lead to the closest AA meeting, or that they desperately claw away at my crisp, refreshing lager every chance they get. No, the best part is that sometimes they confuse the scraps of trash stuck to my soiled tracksuit for food, and their nibbles tickle me soothingly out of my violent nausea.
Unfortunately, the squirrels recently became dexterous enough to negotiate a beer or two out of my shaking hands. Follow us, we have IPAs, they urge me as I chase them around the park. I’m sweating off the hangover, but also experiencing more pain than I thought was possible. When the squirrels finally slow down, it’s the reservoir. They urge me onwards, and I stare into the sheer, serene water. At this point I feel depressed, because all I see is my reflection, not beer.
Luckily, my days back in law school taught me that the best option is always to drop out. So I vomit a bit into my reflection, bid adieu to the squirrels and head back to my former apartment to bum a beer or two out of the fridge. By that time my hangover is usually gone.
