The words are merely a consoling salve for my throbbing head and my precariously lurching stomach but even as I say them I know that after popping half my Advil bottle, swigging a couple glasses of water and passing out before my stomach realizes it's been hit with something and decides to expel its contents, that in 24 hours I'll be ready to hit the bottles again like a clinically diagnosed 'insane' person.
Because only an insane person would decide to pair wine with a heaping side of Jagger et Red Bull. While my heart rate was zapped to full pumping capacity by the red bull and simultaneously hit with two alcoholic 'depressors,' I was busy enjoying life through my alcohol-tinged glasses where everybody is a fucking comedian. The world was colour coded in florescent rainbow hues and gravity was playing Grounders so I spend about half my time making sure the floor wasn't going to get up and walk away - so I thought best attach my cheek to it just to be sure. It's only while intoxicated does your idiocy seem completely ubiquitous; like there's a giant fucking elephant in the middle of the room and you and everybody else is in on the joke. Except the elephant's actually shitting in the room and it happens to be you everybody is video recording as you strip naked and try to glomp the nearest warm body, oblivious to the fact that the mortification will nearly kill you when it is repeatedly tagged on Facebook the next morning (as if it wasn't already going to be viciously tattooed to your eyelids unless you get lucky and die first from embarrassment) and shown to you in slow motion with the comment: 'oh, did you know who you were all over last night?"
And You Respond: I'm sure he'll come find me and let me know. (The neck abuse is usually a dead give away).
But in all seriousness, I really, really want to be able to formulate a legitimate argument to defend the appeal of alcohol consumption and to this day I haven't managed to do so without sounding faintly unhinged. Or like a raging alcoholic. But really, other than tasty, fruity concoctions, jello shots, shooters, and jagger bombs - so reminiscent of the Hubba Bubba gum flavour from my childhood that I have declared it a remedy for my nostalgia - that provide hours of off the wall entertainment, unlimited energy, extreme confidence, and the sex drive of a 16 year old boy, all drinking does is lead me to much physical, mental, and emotional suffering.
Only a drunken spaz (hello there) would instigate a trek through the rain in 5 inch heels at one in the morning through a Shoppers and a Metro (that's a 24 hour drugstore and grocery store respectively for those out of Canuck territory), or think it's a good idea to engage in drunken hand/foot tying in some sexually perverted hogtie embodiment, or would think it was a completely logical idea to screw on one's genital piercing with pliers and to completely maul a friend's neck. When one mixes natural impulsive idiocy with copious amounts of alcohol, bad decisions are formed and the lines of one's sexuality are blurred and your head produces images of you and the nearest pair of legs in sexual harmony that would send any rational mind to a state of befuddled histrionics. The rational mind would immediately send a strongly worded message to your body saying that in no way would it support this nonsense and would abruptly cut off all circuits of action. Of course, these signals are
Bringing us to the morning.
When the Jagger and Wine catches up to the Red Bull and they float around all Lazy River style in my stomach in a contented, bubbling pool, my body can finally relaxes and enters a coma-like sleep. Pulling one's body out of this coma is a very, very dumb idea because you will inevitably suffer through the two stages of post-drinking*:
1. You are still drunk, but your brain no longer acknowledges this. You get up, your legs don't. You fall flat on your face. You try to recite the alphabet and fail. You try to go back to bed but are stopped when none of your limbs agree to move. You construct a makeshift bed by lying on the carpet and closing your eyes.
2. You are no longer drunk. All the alcohol you consumed last night is presently being processed by a seething, overtired and extremely cranky liver. Your head feels like a brick, your body like it is struggling beneath a woolly mammoth and your mouth tastes like the somebody crawled in there and died. Your bladder is threatening to burst but every time you sway towards ascension your head explodes and you swear some of your brain has leaked out through your ears. You finally manage to get up and are surprised at how far the distance is between your ass and the toilet seat and almost piss in the bathtub due to sheer frustration and then your stomach realizes your now conscious and expresses it's condolences at your headache and raises you nausea. Your stomach, a brewing, mutinous toxic concoction is threatening to rear it's way through your esophagus and your tongue is sticking to the roof of your mouth and every time you talk you're mentally signing over your autographed Tom Felton cds, your first born, and your shot glasses to God if He would just keep the contents of your stomach from making an appearance.
Hello Hell, how I've missed you.
*The length and severity of each stage is determined by the amount of alcohol consumed and the tolerance of the drinker.
But of course, I was circumnavigating Stage 2 when I had to leave for work and thus began the longest 4 and half hours of my life when on two occasions I narrowly avoided projectile puking all over two customers, the inside of my mouth was a piece of dry sandpaper and my attempts to talk were usually halted by the fear of my liquid 'party' coming back up to haunt me. I alternated customer service, bending over the toilet trying (and failing) to puke, and contemplating stabbing myself with the pen in my apron because at least they'd have to wheel me out of here on my back.
Hangover's are the body's vicious retribution. Work should never proceed drinking if you can help it - and if you can manage, when you are poising that bottle of tequila over your lips, remember that your body WILL get you back for tossing back half of the bottle in one sitting as your friend's supporting cheers goad you on. Remember that those same friends will be the instruments of sound that won't shut the fuck up and you will contemplate murdering if only to reduce the number of elephants stomping all over your head. Remember your tequila slam when you wake up in hell feeling like somebody is going at the inside of your stomach with a meat tenderizer and your skull is practically pulsing out of your head and you have to roll out of bed, go to work, and try to explain to people the advantages of buying a Pumpkin candle without throwing up your kidneys. Try, TRY to remember resembling, feeling, and throwing up shit right when you're about to tequila-it-up.
P.S. I'd say skip the tequila entirely, but we both know that in the moment, all your head is thinking is:
I can take it. The night is young...let's go shot for shot.
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