I woke up at ten (new ten) and answered some sexuality survey questions online in some detail, and then got to trying to tame the wilderness below. If the success of a party is directly proportional to the stickiness of the floor afterwards, then we did well; limoncello and melon liqueur had formed a fine flypaper sheen on the entire kitchen floor which was... well, really nauseating actually. On the whole I wasn't anywhere near as hung over as I deserved to be, just a bit of queasiness going into the soccer game that turned into a massive starvation explosion when Chris put the roti whammy on me. Then he said that he'd buy me a roti if I scored a goal, so I scored a goal. A beauty goal, too, a fucking wide-open breakaway into their unprotected end zone and all kinds of finishing. It was really nice. Now full of roti I am completely exhausted and have an annoying number of things to deal with before The Simpsons, after which (based on how I'm feeling right now) I fully expect to lapse into a coma. So much roti. So much of everything. This weekend was pornographic in its excess, at least in relation to how spare everything's been lately. My body's not used to excess, not right now.