Wednesday, July 4, 2012
Consider the Hangover
The hangover is a mean, ugly, vile beast. It doesn't really have any natural predators. There are some who make wild claims that they are immune to its evils and ploys and attacks, but they are liars. Liars, or ignorant (wilfully or otherwise), or they are under the age of 20. The hangover is part dragon, part fighter jet, and part buffalo. And rhino. There's probably an angry, raging rhino somewhere in there.
The hangover takes no prisoners as it struts/barrels/lurks forbodingly through life. The hangover storms down the road without a care in the world. It's like a kid knocking over another kid's sandcastle. It leaves a trail of destruction in its wake without ever giving a fuck about the consequences, about what people may think of its actions. I'd like to be a badass of hangover proportions, but alas I know that I am not.
The hangover renders each person it touches debilitated. Varying degrees of incapacitated reached and surpassed by those who incurred the hangover's wrath, while the hangover stands by and watches without ever feeling sympathy. After all, that which induces a beating from Mr Hangover were approached with prior knowledge of the consequences. I, you or they may have even at one point yelled above the music, "MAN, I am going to pay for this tomorrow!"
They who now moan in pain, spend aeons in the shower, enjoy a morning sitting next to a toilet, or gorge themselves on bacon and remorse knew that the hangover is a motherfucker who ain't one for carin', especially after it punches you in the face.
Now that I think about it, the hangover is a real piece of work. I oughta take it outside, give it a piece of my mind. A swift kick in the dick, perhaps. I know that I won't though. The hangover reduces me to a monosyllabic blob of pain, misery and waves of nausea. I am a veritable surfer, such are those waves. Or rather, I surf as well as one can when your head feels as if it's been stomped on by a morbidly obese man wearing shoes with cleats.
The hangover sits on the couch next to me and smirks while I guzzle up an entire box of barbeque Shapes at 5pm after spending most of the day up until that point with the toilet bowl, or a bucket. The hangover shakes its head in feigned disappointment (read: actual amusement) as messages are sent to friends, "Sorry man! Won't be able to make it today. I've got an editing job that I really have to finish. Dinner next week?". THE HANGOVER MAKES YOU LIE. I WAS NOT EDITING. I was in the midst of a nauseous self-berating. The hangover makes you lie to others, and yourself.
"No ... I'm pretty sure I left before I made a real ass of myself."
The hangover knows this, and isn't afraid of informing you. With a smart-ass, self-satisfied grin. The hangover is a dick. My work here is done, it thinks, while knowing it'll never really be done. It isn't ashamed of striking down an entire house's worth of sleeping bodies during the night. Indeed, the hangover revels in its ability to do so. Seemingly overnight it deals out the destruction (that's not even factoring in the destruction dealt to the house), and not a single fuck is given. I don't think the hangover has any friends, but I don't think the hangover cares. The hangover's probably a bit of a sociopath. A troll, of the highest order. I wake up with The Shame (oh, the shame of it all), and the hangover says "U MAD?"
One might occasionally want to be a no-fuck-giving boss a la the hangover occasionally. I for one, would like a devil-may-care swagger to accompany me through my day. The thing is though, I do care about trails of destruction being left in my wake. I'm the one who ends up responding to questions with "Hnnnggsrrrhshhh...", after eating one metric shit-tonne of bacon. I can't ever not give a fuck if I leave that trail of destruction. I am not a part-dragon, part-buffalo, part-fighter jet, part-rhino, all-not-give-a-fuck creature. And that is why I consider the hangover after having to deal with its smug aura of self-satisfaction while I spend the day watching The Big Bang Theory instead of The Wire because my brain just cannot handle it. I consider it, and now I've decided to steer clear of it. At least, for a little while.
I'm doing Dry July, y'all!