A Tempe Hangover

I woke up in my pants on the floor. My brain was missing.

My roommate ate my pizza and I didn't even notice. I was too busy being dead.

I tried to text my mom. My phone died. My brain died. My life died.

I tried to walk. I fell. I tried to stand. I failed. I became a zombie.

I texted my friend: 'I am not a human anymore. I am a ghost.'

I went to work. My boss said, 'Are you sick? You look like a ghost.' I said, 'I am a ghost.'

My body went on vacation. I got a text: 'Have a good time!' I said, 'I don't even know where I am.'

I tried to take a shower. My body said, 'Nope. I'm still on vacation.'

I texted my friend: 'I think my body is on vacation. I am not coming back.'

I tried to think. My brain was soup. I said, 'I can't think. I am soup.'

I texted my friend: 'My brain is soup. My body is dead. I am dying.'

I tried to go to school. My brain said, 'I am soup. I can't go to school.'

I tried to get up. My body said, 'I quit. I'm not doing this anymore.'

I texted my friend: 'My body quit on me. I am dying.'

I tried to go to work. My body said, 'Nope. I'm on strike.'

I tried to walk. My body collapsed. I said, 'I am not walking anymore.'

I texted my friend: 'My body collapsed. I think I am dead.'

I tried to eat. My body said, 'Nope. I can't eat. I am dead.'