As you peel your eyelid off of the pillow and attempt to use the piece of inflated sandpaper you have replaced your tongue with to cry out for help, it does feel as though the word may have ground to a halt. The likelihood of this is slim, you are just hungover. Somewhere between the seventh pint and the twelfth you realised that you had superpowers. An inhuman ability to inhale ethanol based beverages. Tequila was a good choice, it makes you happy after all? Alas, as Newton's third law states, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, what goes up must come down. Tequila then also makes you sad, or does it? Back to the pillow. You have managed to locate the phone you smashed on the floor outside the kebab/chicken/insert relevant fried epicurean delight shop last night and realise that you have been woken up early, not by your alarm, but by a sharp spike of hormones flying through your fragile body from the adrenal gland. This is the fear my friend. What the fuc