Saturday, March 29, 2008

Holy Hangover, Batman.

Something here just doesn't add up. You would think that my pseudo-viking blood + four years of training at a public university in a college town where most weekends there really isn't much to do besides drinking unless you're willing to submit yourself to some lame, dry, campus coordinated activity would have me in better binge drinking shape than I am now... Nope. After last night's shit show which (I believe) involved probably downing an entire bottle of chenin blanc and a bit of fancy red wine a colleague gave me as a gift yesterday with dinner, two or three g&ts (one of which was sipped out of a shattered glass which was broken in an all-too-enthusiastic toast) and a shot of fishermans at the nearby Bodega, finally topped off with an enormous, extra-strong Pusser's Painkiller at Salon 39, I am feeling like absolute crap. We're talking toads-in-a-hole for breakfast with an After Eight for a breakfast dessert (honestly, when else, besides utmost hungover states, do people really feel the need to eat dessert after breakfast?!) followed by my lying on the couch in silent misery, shivering as my body tries futilely to metabolize the alcohol coursing through my tiniest veins and kickboxing my liver.

Lesson learned - I can't drink like I used to? I guess that's probably a good thing. Binge drinking is completely unattractive. Time to lady-up and stop acting like a co-ed heathen. Maybe.

Hmm, well, this post started with the intention of being a longer and more profound look at my inner thoughts about my personal drinking and drug 'hobbies' from my highly hungover perspective, but I've decided I'd rather assume the recovery position than blog. Sorry.

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