I didn’t drink enough water the other day, and I became moderately dehydrated. I place the real blame on our water filter, it makes hydration an imposition. If I could, I would bypass the filter altogether and drink tap water, but my wife prohibits the consumption of what she calls, government-grade chlorinated piss in our household. No water touches our parched lips that has not first been sanctified by the miserable little filter affixed to our sink, that cost me nearly thirty year’s worth of “Mad Magazine” subscription fees.
In the mornings, when I want water, it goes like this: I stumble to the sink, yawn, and initiate the filtration apparatus. The device reduces a rushing river of tap water down to a fine trickle – much like an old man using a urinal – and before my glass is full, it’s time to start supper. Subsequently, I find myself avoiding the faucet altogether, and by the end of the day I’m about as dehydrated as a fresh paper towel.
Before bed last night, I sought to remedy my issue. I consumed nearly eight glasses of water, and downed twelve ounces of pickle juice. It worked too, just like Doctor Oz said it would. My headache went away, and I felt rejuvenated.
The next morning, when I awoke I discovered the bedsheets had been stripped from beneath me, and Jamie was out sleeping out on the couch.