I often use this column to talk about subjects you may find interesting (“Did Diwali eating hurt your thigh gap?”) or important global issues (“Why Shia LeBouef should play ISIS in upcoming movie”) but today I’d like to keep this personal. I want to talk about a dear friend, someone I’ve known for 16 years. He has been with me through my worst days. His name is hangover, and even now, as I struggle to type this, he’s sitting here with me, one hand inside, I mean on, my head.

Hangover and I first met in London when I was sixteen. It was a meet-cute straight out of an Ashton Kutcher movie. I snuck into a bar, got really hammered, and while I don’t remember the details, I woke up in bed with him. After the first few minutes of awkwardness and shame, we decided to get breakfast together like adults, and after a round of eggs, bacon and toast, he got up and walked out of my life. Forever, I thought. But little did I know. Over the next few weeks in London, hangover and I met often. Some days we walked through the park, wondering who turned all the lights up so bright. Other times we just stayed in bed all day as he re-enacted 50 Shades of Grey, but only on my brain.