The hangover would kill him, he was sure of it. If not, he was already dead, and this was hell.
Focussing his eyes on a single image took so much effort he considered the achievement of this a major success. Gaining verticality was positively a triumph.
As the pounding in his head became incessant, the hungover man decided this would not do and set off to change this sorry situation.
Entering his kitchen, the fridge shone like a treasure chest. He decided to ignore the devastation of his kitchen, that would be a problem for his future self.
The most pressing matter was bacon! He opened the fridge and was met with a terrible sight.
Butter, milk, cheese, Thai curry paste, strawberries, "fucking peppers!" he exclaimed with more venom than the vegetables deserved, but no bacon.
This really would not do, his survival depended on the consumption of bacon. He reached a terrible conclusion. He had to leave the house.
With a sense of dread, he dressed with no consideration for fashion and went out into the world. It was an arduous journey.
The morning was late and there were lots of people about and they all wanted to say hello. Nevertheless, he ploughed on with great determination.
In what must have been a record time he went to the shops, bought some bacon, and made it back home safely. Everything would soon be alright.
With an eagerness that would have scared a serial killer, he tore into the bacon. He opened his cupboard for his frying pan, and found nothing. Memory rushed back.
He would never be able to say why he had drunkenly given away his kitchenware to his friends, barely holding back the tears, he prayed they hadn't disconnected his oven again.