It is a curious feeling to maintain a love for this world while every instance in which its reality becomes apparent induces nausea.
I have a hangover.
That said, I find it's easier to write in the grips of a hangover. And this I say while typing on a laptop precariously perched on the floor, at the edge of an air mattress where moments before I arose confused in a friend's kitchen. And now I type while having to take frequent, intermittent breaks to writhe into a position comfortable enough to predict whether a trip to the bathroom will in the next few moments be required.
A hangover supplies the rare condition in which minds are allowed to race freely--albeit anxiously from both withdrawals and lack of sleep, without the inhibiting influence of the frontal lobe. The point being that despite its obvious unpleasantness, it has its uses.