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Happy year of the fire pig! I was in San Francisco this morning, and had I not been apocalyptically hung over, I might have ambled over to Chinatown for the afternoon. But, alas, I was a trembling mess, so instead I undertook the epic journey from the Union Square area back to Oakland and from the train station to my house. Then I collapsed on my couch and moaned for an hour before finally falling asleep. I kept on sleeping until about 4 p.m. Now I'm awake and gradually rehydrating and eating leftover chipotle mashed potatoes and life is good, even if I didn't accomplish any of the things I thought I might accomplish today. Last night was great fun, though. My friend Scott was in town for a conference and had the evening free, so we went out and got a nice dinner, then went to a cool bar (Rye, at Geary and Leavenworth), where we drank and talked and observed hipsters in their natural environment. Eventually we went to the liquor store across the street, got a bottle of booze, and headed back to his hotel room, where we proceeded to drink and talk the night away. I drank way too much. This is the worst hangover I remember ever having. My body is, clearly, going out of its way to tell me I'm not 22 anymore. Message received!

This morning I said to Scott, "Every time I'm hungover, I independently discover the origin of myths about sins and Hell. You do something super fun... and you're subsequently punished."

Man, I wish I had tomorrow off work like civilized people do. Instead, we're finishing the March issue of A Certain Magazine, which means I'll be working harder than usual, even. Brutal, y'all. Just brutal.

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