The Day I Quit Faking Vertical

Man

I didn't even party that hard

That’s the saddest part

Just three beers and a text I shouldn't have sent

Now my spine forgot its job

And my conscience is on the floor

You say, “ Dude, the meeting’s in twenty”

I say, “ Cool

Tell the carpet I’ll be late

I’m still learning to be horizontal”

Tell him I’m hungover

Tell him I flatlined at 2 AM

Say my alarm clock staged a coup

My backbone’s on vacation

And my give-a-damn is broken again

Tell him I’m hungover

You can put it in a PowerPoint, I don’t care

Just let him know my pulse is faint

But I won’t be there

Yeah

I had a whole script prepared this morning “ Productive member of society”

Then I looked at my reflection

And she asked me: “ Since when do you lie for a living?”

So if he asks about my work ethic

Tell him it’s on life support (barely breathing)

If he needs a deadline promise

Tell him I promise nothing except Tuesday. Maybe.

Tell him I’m hungover

Tell him I’m still ghosting gravity

Say my car won’t start (it will)

My dog’s fine (he’s judging me)

I’ve lost my spine, my script, my strategy

Tell him I’m hungover

You can frame it like a diploma

I don’t care

Just make sure he understands the words: “ I won’t be there”

If he really needs a soldier

Tell him I’ll re-enlist after coffee. Or never.

Right now the ceiling and I are having a moment

And the moment’s name is surrender

Tell him I’m hungover

Tell him I’m practicing my right to be useless

Say my ambition retired

My motivation re-gifted

My inner voice said: “ Stay. Just this once. Be useless.”

Tell him I’m hungover

You can spin it, you can share it, you can swear it’s a flu

But the truth is simpler:

Today my soul called in sick

And I’m listening to it too

So send my regards from the floor

Tell him I’ll try again tomorrow. Or the day after.

Right now I’m teaching my bones how to rest

Without apologizing for it.

Man.

Yeah.

Just… tell him I’m hungover.