SWARTHOS

Hangover Dawn: A Freak Odyssey Through L.A.’s Haze

Morning breaks like a cheap bottle of mescal over the jagged edges of my skull, May 8, 2025, and Los Angeles is already sneering at me through a photochemical haze. Hungover? Hell, I’m still half-cocked from yesterday’s bender—a lunatic cocktail of pills and booze, a kaleidoscope of uppers, downers, and whatever else I could shovel into my bloodstream. It was a wild ride, a glorious rocket ship of euphoria that soared until 3 a.m., when the whole damn circus collapsed into a pile of psychic rubble. Now, here I am, 6 a.m., staggering through the plant district, squinting at a sky that might be blue, might be brown, or might just be the amber tint of my shades, which I wear like armor against this relentless California sun. I’m no fan of bright days—give me cold, gray, overcast gloom any time—but there’s a perverse charm to L.A.’s summer brutality, the heat and haze that cook your brain into a fine, mad stew.

Planes roar overhead, slicing through the dawn on their way to LAX, their contrails stitching the sky like some cosmic sewing machine. I fumble for my phone, a clumsy attempt to capture the scene, but—blast it!—I point the damn thing the wrong way, shooting nothing but a blur of industrial rooftops. What a fool! No matter, more jets are coming, and I manage to snap a couple as they scream past, photographic quality be damned. I’m too hungover to care, still floating on the dregs of yesterday’s high, a mellow buzz that hums through my veins like a low-voltage current. Not enough, though. Never enough.

Now I’m headed home, a short drive. Then, out of nowhere, a maniac in a sedan comes barreling down a residential street—50, 60 mph, white-knuckling the wheel like she’s auditioning for a demolition derby. Sun in her eyes, drifting into my lane, she’s a missile with no guidance system. Parked cars hem me in on the right; I’ve got nowhere to go. I lean on the horn, a desperate blast to snap her out of whatever trance she’s in. She swerves back to her side, doesn’t slow, just keeps rocketing toward whatever holy grail she’s chasing. I’m left in her dust, heart pounding, muttering curses under my breath.

But I make it home. Alive. The euphoria lingers, a faint echo of yesterday’s madness, and Los Angeles keeps humming its chaotic tune outside my window. Another day in paradise.