Having a Hangover

I went to a wedding yesterday.

Appropriately, I got drunk. Really drunk. I consumed a great deal of beer and some wine. I think it was white.

I didn’t, however, drink scotch and, for this, I am grateful. I feel that if scotch had been present, I would have also consumed that. I believe that the inhalation of scotch in my state last night could have led to multiple problems, which include, but are not limited to:

·      Passing out in a bush.

·      Fighting the mother-of-the-bride.

·      Proclaiming a sudden need to run away to the circus.

·      Attempting the worm.

·      Fighting the cover band.

·      Getting lost in the toilet.

·      Hitting on the flower girl.

·      Stealing a golf flag.

·      Flippant criticism of the weather.

Mostly, I believe that consuming scotch would have actually heightened the horridness of my mental and physical state today. Even then, I feel ordinary. And by ‘ordinary,’ I mean terrible. And by ‘terrible,’ I mean I’m pretty sure my brain is actually trying to force its way through my skull with what feel like serrated steel tongs, while my stomach moans/gurgles spastically and my crusty eyes keep shying away from the light.

My body and soul are two separate entities who are both immensely disappointed with each other. Their argument is the kind of clatter that I can do without,

In this state, I desire grease and human comfort. I do not think these things need to be kept apart either. I would happily allow someone to feed me bacon while gently hugging and telling me, ‘it’ll pass. You’ll be ok. More bacon?’

Both these things require some sort of effort (unless there’s a delivery service?) and merely sitting at my desk at the moment is exacting enough. The sound of my aggressive typing is a peculiar hammer. My ears are repelled. I am grateful for automatic spell-checking too, because this would otherwise be littered with basic spelling errors.

….

I’m not really going anywhere with this. I think I just wanted to share. Perhaps elicit some sympathy, which, of course, I won’t receive. In fact, all that I am expecting is the marble-like sound of eyes rolling, accompanied by a slightly sinister sigh, and a muttered, ‘well, that’s what happens. You deserve this.’ And I probably do, yet this does not mean that I cannot look out at you metaphorically from this text with my soft doe eyes and ask longingly, ‘please care. I am sick and in urgent need of love and attention. And coffee. Also some coke. Perhaps ice cream? Certainly mac’n’cheese.’

Just think of me and the sad puppy as one.

I think I may go fry some bacon (and by ‘some,’ I mean copious amounts), get a blanket and watch soothing Disney movies for a few hours. I'll then likely fall asleep on the couch in the fetal position, a bit of pig still hanging out the side of my mouth and the blanket exposing the fact that I am without pants.

So I’ll stop.