Honestly, this is just me cussing about my hangover. Your time is better wasted elsewhere.

This morning there was a T. Rex inside my skull, with my goddamn brain in its jaws, stomping thunder and belching lightning.  It must have sauntered on in through my ear some time between the fourth or fifth double vodka last night.  Never saw it coming. Fuckers are quiet when they want to be.

I don’t know what time I fell asleep, but I awoke fully clothed, in my dress pants and geriatric-couture cardigan, at nine a.m. My internal clock is officially set to the working world. Regardless of what I do the night before, I wake up no later than nine. I may only be operating on muscle memory, unable to form words, and mix up my deodorant and toothpaste, but I am awake.

I made it through half of a too-sweet granola bar before a pretty compelling surge of nausea convinced me to lay back down. Never before had the white of my walls been so bright. My eyelids had the opacity of tissue paper and everything, EVERYTHING, was a big bright “fuck you, Mr. Justice.”

I eventually tied a bandana around my head to shield my eyes.  But it’s like the light had already made it inside my head, and just got brighter and brighter and brighter as it continued to bounce around inside with nowhere else to go, with nothing else to do all day but hurt me.

At some point, between the first and second nap, I actually felt around my head to make sure I did not have a gaping wound or that I was not a victim of one of those freak accidents where somebody with a nail gun and itchy trigger finger fires an errant round into a passerby’s skull, and he walks around for hours in pain, not knowing he’s destined to end up in numerous medical journals.

My hands found no nail, no surprise arrowhead.

And then there was my mouth, which ached like there was some second wave of wisdom teeth coming in.  And those wisdom teeth had their own wisdom teeth, and those smaller wisdom teeth had more tiny little wisdom teeth.  And those last little wisdom teeth had HUGE, shitty hangovers.

To make matters worse, my beard hurt.  And wanted something to drink.

Around 6 pm came acceptance of the possibility that the headache would be something I now had to live with forever – my head permanently running through a gauntlet of mallet-wielding banshees, all wailing at maximum volume while pummeling mercilessly, and without fatigue.

I would go to work with this pain, I would eat breakfast tacos with this pain, would go on first dates and try to sound interesting with this pain, I would project an air of confidence and competence during job interviews with this pain, would discover the thrills of mortgages and insurance bureaucracy with this pain, would celebrate birthdays and anniversaries with this pain, I would have other, regular headaches with this pain.

I would die with this pain.

Realizing the only thing I’d eaten was a granola bar, I decided the best thing to do was drive to P. Terry’s, order a burger, drive home, eat said burger, and call it a night.

Little did I know the drive to that fine burger stand would yield fruitful scientific information that has eluded scientists studying inebriation for years. Tuning to 90.5 KUT-FM, I discover it – all fiddles and flutes and guitars, the answer to a question too painful for most drunks to even ask: What kind of music is the most cripplingly painful when you have a hangover?

Answer: Celtic music.

Celtic music is the most painful genre to hear when afflicted with a hangover.

After thirty seconds of bravely facing those insane fiddles, all in the name of science, I knew radical measures had to be taken.

So, I ordered not one, but two veggie burgers. With fries.

And a strawberry milkshake.

I ate one burger on the road. It was not pretty.  Somewhere in my car is a piece of rogue lettuce turning evil.  But, I didn’t care how it looked to fellow drivers.  My pride did not survive intact, but that was kind of a mercy killing anyway.

It may have been the greatest burger of my entire life, and I don’t say that lightly. I don’t say it rashly, either.  I thought about it; I slept on it.

Yes, there was a post-burger nap, followed shortly by a post-burger-nap burger.

That burger was good, too.

Funeral services for my pride will be held later in the week.

6 Comments

Filed under Drinking, Humor

6 responses to “Honestly, this is just me cussing about my hangover. Your time is better wasted elsewhere.

  1. kim

    never has a hangover been so hilarious. too funny, josh! i really hope you don’t have to fumble through a first date with that pain… sounds terrible.

  2. Vee

    i wake up at 5:30AM without fail every day, despite any and all circumstances, mostly to the call of roosters or to the hellish din of people who have no concept of reasonable volume, or even tolerable music for that matter. at around 4:30 but no later than 5AM they are already about washing the laundry, sorting through the morning rice, doing whatever the hell else you would need to make up that early for, their happy loud voices rising with laughter and song to tackle the day, each and every single goddamn day–

    or maybe they just tackle the spirit out of my day, any remote desire to wake up with them.

    fuck integration. i just want to sleep in til 8AM for once.

    • Your comment contrasts in a way so as to make my account of a postmodern, lazy, indulgent, drunk American’s shallow search for a fast-food cure to a self-induced trauma sound too much like what it is.

      And for the absurdly early wrenching tug into consciousness that it is, your morning sounds kind of lovely.

      They got P. Terry’s there?

      • Vee

        that’s what i was going for, but just a little bit.

        and it would be lovely, if it wasn’t so fucking early!

        no P. Terry’s, but in the capital there is a really hilarious obvious rip off of Burger King, called Speed Burger. it’s a food truck with weird french variations of American fast food, except it’s all really overpriced because this concept is still a foreign export and probably targeted towards travelers who (assumedly) have more money. when you convert the prices it’s about the same as as our regular fast food meals in USD, if not a little more. but locals work and eat there, surely. i just can’t get over the irony that they pay more for this luxury which health-wise is so much worse for them than the food they usually eat, which is so drastically cheaper. thankfully this Speed Burger hasn’t much caught on anywhere else.

        [The best thing about this place is that it’s located right next to a private religious school, with a giant terrifying statue of Jesus with eyeballs that seriously resemble that of internet legend and registered sex offender Brian Peppers (please, please google this guy if you haven’t seen him), so if you enter the school grounds and look at this statue from a certain spot it looks as if the outstretched arms of this deformed, monstrous Jesus are pointing the way, oh pointing towards the most holy and righteous path…right to the nearby Speed Burger.

        God Bless America]

  3. I demand a photo!

    I am indeed aware of Brian Peppers. (shudders)

    I hope you’re keeping a journal of some sorts, because your two comments are awesome. It would be sort of hilarious to do side-by-side breakdowns of how your and my days are spent.

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