You wake before the alarm and lie there doing the sums.
The night was good. Better than good.
You remember the date and the second bottle and the round you insisted on buying.
Now the head is thick.
The morning belongs to the recovery, not to you.
Nobody warns you that pleasure runs on credit.
The treat felt free at the table.
You pay for it here, in the hours you meant to use.
In the workout you'll skip. In the version of today you traded for last night.
Moderation was never about the drink.
It's about who owns tomorrow.
Enjoy the splurge.
Just read the interest rate before you sign.
