A co-worker of mine, and now fellow city to suburbs train commuter was not her usual chipper self when I plopped down in the seat next to her.
“Hey,” I said, greeting her at the God-forsaken hour of 6:50 a.m.
“I feel like SHIT.”
“You got a cold or something?” I asked, not realizing that it’s entirely possible that I’m not the only one capable of coming to work hungover.
“I’m hungoverrrrrrr,” She replied and then ran down the list of stuff she drank last night. Shots of Jameson, beer after beer after beer. I was going to throw up just listening to her.
We have a car pick us up every morning for the last leg of the journey. While I entertained our driver with my morning rants about the state of the world, woozy whiskey girl started coughing like a emphysema patient.
“Ah, man. I sure hope I don’t barf or something awful like that,” She said. “We have such a nice bathroom." She's right. We just moved from a century-old warehouse near the Chicago River. We're still amazed at our working plumbing and squeaky-clean environs.
Looks like someone hasn't learned her lesson. She might be at it again soon--the following message just popped up:
"I just got an invite to go to the Kit Kat club tomorrow night at 9! I am going to die! No more boze (sic)!"
Ah, the all-too-familiar No more boze pledge.