Do you ever find yourself strolling through the parking lot of a half-assed suburban strip-mall at 10:34 am on a Sunday morning? Sun beating on your face. Sunglasses to protect your reddened sleep deprived eyes. Lit cigarette hanging from your dry cracked-out bottom lip as it droops slightly separate from the top.You haven't slept since Thursday night because you've been on a weekend long cocaine/alcohol binge. There may have been more drugs involved but you can't remember and it doesn't really matter at this point. Your mustache smells like a mix between the sweaty pussy you scored somewhere between late Friday night and early Saturday morning at an after-party in some random hotel room and Jack Daniels. You need a drink—some hair of the dog—to keep you going but you know you've gotta resist postponing this feeling until Monday at work.

Well next time this happens to you, don't hate on yourself, don't curse your existence, don't even promise a higher power that you'll never do it again if you could just feel better. Remember you're walking with giants. Pretend you're an incarnation of Hunter S. Thompson. It'll cheer you up.