A Hangover and a Black Eye
I awaken, sensing that dullness and confusion that is a hangover. Am I at home? Thankfully. Am I alone? Yes, I may begin this process with peace and tranquility. What did I do last night to feel this bad? What was that bartender's name? Dear God, do I have to go to the bathroom.
I swing my feet out of bed, thud, thud. In my malaise I drag my bare feet across the hardwood of my home. I've left the toilet seat up. Sweet relief. A wash of the hands at the bathroom sink, while I stare at myself in the mirror, searching for bloodshot eyes and dark circles beneath. I don't look all that bad, but I do need to shave.
The dehydration of excessive alcohol use is exacerbated by the fact that I've donated blood earlier in the week. I don't usually have headaches. Turn on the computer, head to the kitchen. "Water", I say to myself, using SpongeBob's voice the time he went to visit Sandy inside her underwater air-filled lair. I fill up a souvenir Cleveland Indians cup that I got several years ago at Spring Training in Winter Haven with water from the Brita pitcher. (Of course, the plastic mug was filled with beer when it was purchased.) Head to the medicine cabinet: milk thistle and men's multivitamin for the hangover, and fish oil capsules and a zinc supplement for overall health. I sit down at the computer, and I finally notice the burn.
That wicked warm, oddly familiar feeling of heartburn. Or, more clinically, gastroesophageal reflux disease induced by a hiatal hernia. I prefer just to say, "I got stomach problems." The constant, discomforting warmth. That damned cheeseburger last night! And the pommes frites. Why do I put such toxic, manipulated filth into my body? "Alcohol quickly depresses inhibitions and judgment," says the website of a random 12 step program. Right, got it. Where are the tums? I'm not going back on that Nexium crap, the stuff is almost a buck-a-day even with health insurance. Why on earth did you eat deep-fried foods twice in two days, you fat, ignorant boob? Take a Tagamet. Doesn't help that much. Chew on a few rolaids, no relief is spelled. Wait, wait for the bubbling stomach acid to recede back from my esophagus. "Down, down," I sing to my stomach a la Fred Schneider in "Rock Lobster."
Afternoon sets in, and of course I end up at a Mexican restaurant, just what GERD-boy here needs. "So we are having margaritas," suggests one of my dining companions. Yes, yes, let's add alcohol to those fried tortilla chips on the table, perfect.
But the tagamet has begun to work, and the margarita eased the alcohol withdrawal. It's late afternoon now, and the celly's jingling with social calls. The weekend is here. The evening shift bar workers are setting up shop. The office worker's workday comes to a close. After a nap, I bet a can of beer will be awfully tasty.
We've each only one life to live, right?
I swing my feet out of bed, thud, thud. In my malaise I drag my bare feet across the hardwood of my home. I've left the toilet seat up. Sweet relief. A wash of the hands at the bathroom sink, while I stare at myself in the mirror, searching for bloodshot eyes and dark circles beneath. I don't look all that bad, but I do need to shave.
The dehydration of excessive alcohol use is exacerbated by the fact that I've donated blood earlier in the week. I don't usually have headaches. Turn on the computer, head to the kitchen. "Water", I say to myself, using SpongeBob's voice the time he went to visit Sandy inside her underwater air-filled lair. I fill up a souvenir Cleveland Indians cup that I got several years ago at Spring Training in Winter Haven with water from the Brita pitcher. (Of course, the plastic mug was filled with beer when it was purchased.) Head to the medicine cabinet: milk thistle and men's multivitamin for the hangover, and fish oil capsules and a zinc supplement for overall health. I sit down at the computer, and I finally notice the burn.
That wicked warm, oddly familiar feeling of heartburn. Or, more clinically, gastroesophageal reflux disease induced by a hiatal hernia. I prefer just to say, "I got stomach problems." The constant, discomforting warmth. That damned cheeseburger last night! And the pommes frites. Why do I put such toxic, manipulated filth into my body? "Alcohol quickly depresses inhibitions and judgment," says the website of a random 12 step program. Right, got it. Where are the tums? I'm not going back on that Nexium crap, the stuff is almost a buck-a-day even with health insurance. Why on earth did you eat deep-fried foods twice in two days, you fat, ignorant boob? Take a Tagamet. Doesn't help that much. Chew on a few rolaids, no relief is spelled. Wait, wait for the bubbling stomach acid to recede back from my esophagus. "Down, down," I sing to my stomach a la Fred Schneider in "Rock Lobster."
Afternoon sets in, and of course I end up at a Mexican restaurant, just what GERD-boy here needs. "So we are having margaritas," suggests one of my dining companions. Yes, yes, let's add alcohol to those fried tortilla chips on the table, perfect.
But the tagamet has begun to work, and the margarita eased the alcohol withdrawal. It's late afternoon now, and the celly's jingling with social calls. The weekend is here. The evening shift bar workers are setting up shop. The office worker's workday comes to a close. After a nap, I bet a can of beer will be awfully tasty.
We've each only one life to live, right?
posted by Jason at 10:53
2 Comments:
Besides, just think of what a waste it would be if you died before your stomach wore out? It's not like you can donate it, or anything. Clearly, God intended that you get the maximun use out of it, along with the liver, kidneys, etc.
Margaritas. Mmmmm. However, I don't have a rip in my stomach and they still make me queasy. I think that the mix just has too much citric acid in it. I can usually only do one.
Like Rodney Carrington said, "When I die, I want people to walk by the casket and gag!" Who wants to make a beautiful corpse? What good does that do us?
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