Please turn off that very bright light, it's burning my retinas.
That's the sound that one's mental state makes once they have been involved in one of the most elaborately unplanned festivities that a group of random strangers were privy to enjoy. And although the title of this post is somewhat imposing the idea that there were alcoholic beverages used in the making of this blogpost, you should be well aware that no intoxicating liquids played a role in my withdrawal symptoms.
You should know me better than that.
The hangover itself is foreign territory to me. Based on years of second-hand observations, and two eh... Zach Galifianakis films, I am under the impression that an actual hangover is a condition in which the physical body, and mental structure suffer from extreme recovery due to very heavy partying, and/or influence of narcotics. Basically, your body is regrouping from heavy doses of Jack Daniels and methamphetamine on that late night run to Vegas.
I once had a roommate call out the validity of an actual hangover, believing that it was an old wives tale that people used to gain sympathy from others the next day at work.
Jay Markland: "I think it's all a lie man. In the years that I've been drinking, I have never gotten up the next morning and had a pounding headache, or forgot what I did the night before. I always felt just fine. And I have had some heavy nights of drinking, I'll tell ya what."
Now, to give him credit, Markland made this statement when the two of us were 18 years old. Back in the days when we were known as "young'ns" and had metabolisms and heart rates compatible to a hummingbird on steroids. Those were the times weren't they? When you could pull an all-nighter on pure Mt. Dew and go compete in the Ironman triathlon the next morning while toting a beached whale in a wagon behind you.
That young buck is in the history pages though, as I have been curled up in the fetal position for the past three hours, writing this blogpost by typing one letter at a time with a single finger. Impressive? I know. Give me some credit.
The events of yesterday's national holiday were just too much for me to handle. An entire mess of tee shots, Starburst bags, cannonballs, hiccups, Popping boba, fake laughs and double cheeseburgers that forcefully made me feel like an old man. Don't ask me what I was doing at 11:30 last night at Denny's. That's a blasphemous hour for a man my age, I know. But I didn't care. My hedonistic tendencies took over as I poured another shot of raspberry smoothie down my throat, followed by a chaser of southern-cooked hashbrowns.
And here I lay 19 hours later still plunking away with my left pinkie.
I think what compounds the matter is that our blowout festival of national independence came in the middle of the week. Who likes to showcase their unrestrained celebration tendencies on a Wednesday anyway? Curse our forefathers for not establishing their own democracy on a Friday! It's George Washington's fault that I drooled over my TPS reports all morning!
Nobody ever enjoys the day after holidays. By far, they are the most depressing moments in a child's life that get put on an infinite repeat cycle. You show me a person who says they L-word the day after Christmas and I'll show you a lying piece of meat. More than likely, that meat is probably a male. We all lie.
Honestly, this potentially diabetic lack of sugar migraine that has been pulsating through my bloodstream all day is only an indication that I, am an old man. And things are assumably going to worse further on down the road. Don't be surprised if you see a wrinkled up Grandpa, mid-coma on November 1st, or the day after Yom Kippur. Because that knucklehead will probably be me.
Burnt retinas and everything.