Scent of a Hangover

Peculiar things you notice when you start cutting back on drinking (but still drink, because moderation is also a vibe): You develop what can only be described as a bloodhound’s sense of smell. Not for flowers. Not for danger. For people. Specifically, their post-binge body scent after they’ve spent the night in your bed or your sofa, marinating in vodka, beer, and probably bad decisions.

You wake up thinking, Is this eau de regret? It’s not awful—but it is persistent. Like a cologne called "Distilled Choices." And naturally, once you notice it on them, you spiral into self-awareness: Do I smell like this? Have I been bringing this same fragrance to brunch? It’s the kind of realization that makes you reach for herbal tea with a touch of existential dread.

Last night’s dream? A cinematic fever dream dropped straight out of 1975. I was trapped inside a movie trailer, complete with dramatic lighting and the ABC Movie of the Week theme swelling in the background like a soap opera scored by a kazoo. The music’s still in my head. I even looked it up on YouTube this morning to make sure it wasn't some neurological condition. It wasn’t. It’s just my brain’s new ringtone, apparently.

Some folks say hell is eternal fire. I say it’s reruns. And Earth? Just Hell with commercials. Same plot, new channel. We get up, do our rituals, check the news, scream internally, repeat.

Speaking of endless reruns: Trump, post-G7, is apparently back in his Putin phase. Like a toxic situationship you keep re-following on Facebook. He wasn’t into him, now he’s back into him, probably sending late-night “You up?” DMs across geopolitical lines.

As for me, I’m pausing my New York Times subscription. Between the reruns and the rent, something’s gotta give—and I already canceled my gym membership that I never used, so journalism drew the short straw. Sorry, democracy. It's not you, it’s capitalism.