by Das Messer
I’d been lucky enough, before expat life, to have never have suffered a true hangover. Many Sundays of my adult life had been spent sympathizing with my groaning brethren, serving them bacon and eggs and scouring medicine cabinets in an attempt to replenish their collective loss of electrolytes, while they sneered enviously at my sprightliness. After moving to Korea, however, I watched helplessly as my golden youth slipped through my fingers and the once elusive hangover became more than a vicarious pain. What follows is an account of both my very first real hangover, and the most tragic one thereafter.