woke up without a hangover

I shower, shave, shovel some eggs down my throat, and worry about losing my job because my manager thinks I’m “unconventional and withdrawn” and don’t “follow through enough.”

I shrug through my coffee, cover my body with the same blue Oxford shirt and tan khaki pants I wore the day before and probably the day before, hobble out the door with bad breath, no breath mints, and a definite sense of schlubb.

My sky-blue Skylark is my friend this morning. It starts. On the first try.

However, halfway down the street, I run over a nail.

And I don’t have the kind of tires that can run over a nail.

I have the kind of tires that can barely run over a road.

My life’s quota of flat tires has not been met.

So my sky-blue Skylark limps to the shoulder, where it must lean.