It's 7:45 on Saturday morning and I am doing my best to stay in my current state of being — unconscious, hung-over, stationary, comfortable, horizontal. Unfortunately for me, something, or as it would turn out, someone, is destroying my tranquility with incessant thumping on my front door. Every thump is accompanied by a sharp stabbing pain behind my left eye.

All of a sudden I'm re-thinking my whole 'anti-gun' stance. For some reason the option of owning a shotgun seems a lot more reasonable today than it did yesterday. I open my left eye hoping that it might stop the pain emanating from behind it.

It doesn't. Another thump, another stab. I drag my sorry self into an upright position. Slowly. First sitting and then standing. I put my foot in what looks like an almost empty ice-cream bowl. Can't be sure because I can't really see yet. I think I have Cookies 'n' Cream on my big toe.

I don't quite have my balance. I'm swaying like the old willow tree in my grandfather's yard. The banging persists and so does the pain behind my left eye. I am still wearing my track pants from last night. Inside out. I don't know why. I think I smell bad but I'm not sure. I probably do.

My senses are not fully operational. They take a while to warm up. Just like my 17-year-old Ford. The noise from the front door continues. I fantasize about killing the person on the other side with my bare hands.

And if I wasn't a fat, unfit coward with no fighting skills, I might just do it. For a moment, I'm Jason Bourne. But only a moment.

Back to reality and I struggle towards the front door from my smelly nocturnal sanctuary, leaving a sticky trail of Cookies 'n' Cream on the carpet behind me. I open the door and it's my annoyingly happy, well-adjusted, squeaky-clean buddy. Just looking at his stupid, happy face annoys me.

We enter into some meaningful dialogue...

"Wadda you doing here, you idiot?"

"Man you stink... have you rolled in something?"

"Shut up."

"Love you buddy... ready to go?"

"Go where?"

"Dude, today's the day..."

"I liked you more when you were a pathetic alcoholic; go where?"

"C'mon, today's that workshop I bought you for your birthday — it starts in forty-five minutes."