Death by Irony

He woke up that morning with a hangover.  This event was so otherwise commonplace that it did not warrant even a verbal mentioning, yet alone a brief thought but for the fact that ultimately alcohol (more specifically beer) would lead to Thomas Schnell’s untimely death.  As the alarm clock blared “6:30” in a glowing absinth like color a lone hand shout out from under a sea of ruffled blankets, comforters, quilts and pillows.  Today was not going to be the day that Thomas made it to the University early.  Thomas continued to drift in and out of consciousness in a self induced state of dehydration that both him and his female bed companion would both later exclaim that day to their respective friends as being “wasted”.  As Thomas’ eyelids fluttered in his dark incomprehensible world under the quilt, “wasted” as in referring to a piece of raw sewage was perhaps a most perfect adjective to describe his present state.  As the clock ticked slowly to the all important 7:30 Thomas slowly felt a deepening arousal down in his loins.  As he rolled over to his bed companion he suddenly realized that not for the first time had he woken up with a complete stranger, who only a brief 243 minutes ago had not only been a “lifelong” acquaintance but a good hookup, possible girlfriend, and the “best hes ever had”, according to the pillow into which Thomas had moaned this last statement.  As this realization slowly gleaned through his hazy logical deduction system that some scientists would sheepishly refer to as the cortex, the one thing that separated us from the remaining 99.999% of life.  Thomas became unaccountably depressed and decided to get up instead and begin the daily morning ritual.  As most of this was so monotonous that it seemed mundane even to an outside observer, to Thomas it was simply a series of well-travled neurons firing in his brainstem that did not even require a conscious thought on his part.  He showered, shaved, dressed and ate all with hardly a single thought, original or pedestrian, meandering through his brain.  As his bedmate slowly stirred beneath the covers he recalled his actions the previous night.  As it had been his 21st birthday and also for his friends one of the final nights to go out before they left the hallowed ivory tower of academia of the University, they decided to go out and get shitfaced.  The night was a bur of boozing, socializing, bar hopping, minor legal offenses, and finally quite possibly the sloppiest hookup in recent memory with a girl that at the present time he could not even picture her face.  The sudden threatening future scenario of an imminent awkward greeting made his head pound harder, his stomach churn stronger and left him with the brief thought that at some time last night his body and Jim Bean (or a Latin man by the name of Jose) had conspired to try their best to kill him later that night.  He could imagine the forced insincere conversation that would go as something as follows:
“Good morning”
Hey
I had a great time last night…
Ya me too..you want something to eat
(Her face takes on a thoughtful expression to convey an internal monologue debating the merits of consuming 175 calories of a partially frozen cinnamoncheese sticky bun)
Then the hurtful but completely understandable:
“No I gotta run” simultaneous with the look at the nearest object that would possibly symbolize time or an exit.  In this case simply the door and a wall clock.
“Ok I’ll call you”
Sure” As the door closed behind her slightly disheveled arrangment of clothes. 
As this frighteningly familiar and uncomfortable scenario came to a close in his head he decided to do the noble thing and leave before she got up.  As he hastily gathered up the necessary instruments needed to complete a 7:30 AM Film/Lit class on “Film Noir” he fumbled around for  the right words to describe to the inanimate lamp on the bed his reason for leaving so suddenly.  He settled on “Um sorry I go  ta run.  I’ve gotta get to class.”  As he slowly backed away from her.  “I’ll call you later” escaped his lips as he exited his own apartment backwards realizing too late that he had forgotten not only his book bag but also his requisite train pass for the daily R-5 ride to school.  As he cursed himself for forgetting a most important piece of his daily hardware he quickly took the stairs rwo at a time until he reached the lobby of his tiny faux-Gothinc apartment.  He buttoned up his jacket as he exited the building, against the frigid wintery weather.  As he was running early without his usual train pass he decided to walk to the University.  It was only a five minute train ride, but it would be about a thirty five minute walk.  As he slowly started out on the slick icy sidewalks he looked down at every footstep to avoid getting the typical Northeast sludge mixture (a combination of ice, snow, melted ice-snow and pollution) onto his new Adidas sneakers.  As he was thinking about the events of last night he approached the busy intersection of Pennswood and Montgomery and despite the light being red, he proceeded to cross the busy intersection where he was hit and struck by an 18-wheeler trucker.  This truck was otherwise so commonplace that it did not even warrant a mention but for the fact that it was displaying a large Guiness advertisement prominently on its side.