Fear grips my heart like a vice. Just as another equally powerful vice cranks down on my temples. Jesus, this shit happens way too often anymore. It seems like what used to happen once a month, twice if I was feeling frisky now sneaks up on me much too much as of late. I, of course, am referring to the hangover.
To use the term "hangover" is an understatement to the tune of the holocaust. Your average, run of the mill, soccer mom drank too much wine while watching must see TV, hangover is like saying that the holocaust never happened. While my benders and binges, on the other hand, would be the full blown apocalyptic onslaught of fire and brimstone that was the calculated destruction of millions of the european Jewry.
Ok, maybe that was a bit over the top, but it certainly feels like a slaughter. The problem is that the headache really pales in comparison with the fear. The headache is nothing. Bad music can give me a headache and everyone knows there is plenty of that to go around. The fear is the thing. I know that I blacked out and I know there could be dead bodies laying somewhere, just waiting for this week's team of crime scene investigators to bust up my hazy facade and cart me off to serve my life imprisonment.
God knows I deserve it. To be honest, I probably only have dumb luck or divine intervention to thank for my continued existence as a free man. But the fear, that's truly how I'm punished for living my life as a lord of debauchery.
Similar to the feeling you get when you've held your breath too long, the very blood in my veins seems to drop a few degrees. This otherworldly fear only fuels the fire, the anxiety. The anxiety coupled with the haze of a night of heavy drinking. Like a wedding in hell, I see to be married to this recurring tragedy. Shakespeare couldn't have made a finer plot twist, I can't move a muscle and yet that is the only thing on my mind. I must get out of there. Wherever there may be.
If there was a wedding in hell, the fear would be the wedding cake. The centerpiece of the hangover. And like any good cake, this one has layers, and maybe even some side dishes of wedding cake accoutrements. Some of these hellish delicacies include the aforementioned blood as it freezes inside of me. But while the blood cools my body to the point of pain, my lungs burn. Because of course I smoked too much last night. Normal people smoke too much at half a pack, maybe a whole pack. I can easily cut through three or four packs of cigarettes on one of my weekly benders.
Waking up, with a dry mouth and burning lungs, a sore throat and the fear. The fear is the killer. Waking up on a sugar high from this satanic cake is becoming far too frequent of an adventure as of late. Far too frequent.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
Monday, January 23, 2006
lazy friday
"Hey man, how you doing?" It's a typical query. Everytime I use that phrase or some permutation thereof, I want to kick myself in the ass. I just said that exact phrase no more than 10 minutes ago. I don't give a fuck how anyone is doing.
The real shitty part of the whole exchange is the waiting. Wait for the answer long enough and you know you're in trouble. Like lightning across the night sky, my head is filled with flashes of terror. All those horrible thoughts revolve around the small chance that this particular query will end with some sort of forced empathy.
If the wait is too long, how shall I respond? No one has to think about how they are doing. Like today, it's warm, it's not raining and it's Friday. I'm fucking great. Two days ago when it was freezing outside and I had a bunch of classes left this week I was fucking bummed out.
There's about six and a half minutes left of class for the week and I'm riding pretty on this cloud of mine. The only weight holding my high down is the bald man with wire rimmed glasses rambling on about ching chong chang or some shit in my Religions of China class. He's down under 5 minutes left, so I'll let him ramble for now.
One other hurdle I have before I can satiate my desire for the peaceful, the slothlike, the Friday afternoon, is someone, anyone really, I might see on the way home from class. I've resolved to not ask them how they are doing, but I won't wait for them to ask me either, because I'm fucking dandy.
The real shitty part of the whole exchange is the waiting. Wait for the answer long enough and you know you're in trouble. Like lightning across the night sky, my head is filled with flashes of terror. All those horrible thoughts revolve around the small chance that this particular query will end with some sort of forced empathy.
If the wait is too long, how shall I respond? No one has to think about how they are doing. Like today, it's warm, it's not raining and it's Friday. I'm fucking great. Two days ago when it was freezing outside and I had a bunch of classes left this week I was fucking bummed out.
There's about six and a half minutes left of class for the week and I'm riding pretty on this cloud of mine. The only weight holding my high down is the bald man with wire rimmed glasses rambling on about ching chong chang or some shit in my Religions of China class. He's down under 5 minutes left, so I'll let him ramble for now.
One other hurdle I have before I can satiate my desire for the peaceful, the slothlike, the Friday afternoon, is someone, anyone really, I might see on the way home from class. I've resolved to not ask them how they are doing, but I won't wait for them to ask me either, because I'm fucking dandy.
No one is ever up to any good at 3 in the morning.
Cheap vodka is a relative term. In the sense that if you drink enough, it doesn't matter how much the spirit cost, the next morning you're still going to wake up feeling more used than a whore on dollar day.
If only foresight were as clear as it's backward looking counterpart, I would never get myself in the kinds of situations I get myself into. Friday night reared its ugly head and I gave in to temptation. I bought a handle of 100 proof bottom shelf vodka. I splurged and got one step above Vladimir Vodka. Which isn't saying much considering both run at around half the price of the average spirit.
Economics teaches us that we get what we pay for, or at least we hope that we get what we pay for. In terms of "the most bang for your buck," I'm willing to put cheap vodka right up there with anything you can get in the dollar store. That being said, the analogy seems a lot more apt than it first seemed. When I buy something from the dollar store, I always expect it to be half broke or have some weird disfigurement hidden away behind the wrapper. When I unfurl that halfbreed of a whatever it is I buy at the dollar store, I always wince when opening it. Because, I, like most people, fear that which is too easy to come by. And in walks cheap vodka.
That kind of rip-roaring drunk is just way too easy to come by. When I drink cheap vodka, I'm always extra cautious. I stand in the store before I buy it and read and re-read the fine print on the bottle, half expecting there to be a clause about how purchasing the bottle will result in anal rapage. Certainly the last couple times I've done that it FELT like I was raped in the asshole, raw-dog like. No lube. And at the end of my coital adventure I got the old donkey punch. Not that I would know what that feels like, but I have an imagination and a dirty mind. Anal sex and donkey punches about sum up how I feel towards cheap vodka. I could go on to explain why that sums up my feelings, but I feel that it's better left up to the imagination.
Drinking my cheap vodka, mixed with gatorade (in the hopes that this will somehow protect me from the death grip that devil juice will have on me the next morning) I get all intellectual. Like some sort of fucked up world that cheap vodka isn't going to turn me into a baby. Slurring, drooling and shitting all over the place. This time would be different, cheap vodka had no hold on me. The gatorade was acting like a shield, in my mind. It was as if by magic, I was making witty commentary on everything in the 12'x12' world of mine that night. The visitors were impressed with the rapist's wit and the roommates were happy that vomit or any other type of bodily excretions were as yet uninvolved. Life was good.
The next morning, I awoke with nothing more than a dry mouth. Ah, the sweet smell of victory. I beat it. I was better than cheap vodka. I fucked that whore and made the dash for the door while she was passed out and unawares.
This needed to be repeated. Refilling my supply, I picked up another bottle from the local death deal-ery where satan's kool-aid is purchased and found a veritable rainbow of accessories to drink with. From orange juice to gatorade (my friend in arms from the night prior) and I even got one of those coffee drinks with all the gusto that I had found a cheap version of the White Russian.
It certainly was a cheap version of the White Russian. Emphasis on cheap and more like a white russian whore, but it was what it was. This was not the problem. The problem showed up around hour 6 of drinking in the form of a phone call. This phone call necessitated a number of things. First, in order to perform well away from home base (AKA my stash of alcohol) I was going to have to stock up for the trip. Drinking ferociously for a half hour after taking it easy for the past 6 isn't a good idea. In fact, it's fucking stupid. My wits weren't fully about me due to the slight haze I'd developed. I did it though, I drank in one half hour enough to match what I had drank the rest of the night combined. Ever so slowly the drunken stupor creeps up on me.
I stumble around the building for a while, momentarily disoriented. Why did I do that to myself? I could not remember. Just as slowly, the reason comes back to me: the phone call. Well, I've certainly gotten myself into quite a pickle.
At one point, pantsless and in a strange room, it dawns on me that even if I figured out how to get to the final destination of the evening, I had serious doubts about my ability to perform. After all, I was at that point where I would ordinarily just want to sleep. Except for all those cheap white russian whores I had fooled around with earlier, the caffeine involved wanted me to stay up.
Flash forward an hour and I vaguely remember being in a completely different strange room with totally unfamiliar faces. Who would open the door for someone like me? And where are my pants? I thought I put them back on earlier...
Stumbling back into my room, I found my pants and I remember the plan. Gotta do something about that phone call. Only problem is that it's now 4 hours later and all my vodka is gone. Presumably someone else drank the rest of it, because even though there were witnesses telling me I polished off the alcohol, I can't recall that actually happening. They are probably lying like that bitch from the night before. She only tricked me into a false sense of security Friday so that she could put the strap-on on her head and go to town on my asshole like some sort of demonic rhino. Roar! She screamed. And then I curled up in the fetal position and eventually took it, like the little bitch that I am.
It was 3 in the morning by the time I fell, fully clothed and missing my favorite blue lighter, sadly into bed. It was 3 in the morning when the cheap vodka whorebitch took back that fun I owed her from the night prior. As well as any other fun I might have had the chance to accrue over the course of my life. Swearing off alcohol for the rest of my life when I awoke, I toast you now, no more than 12 hours after that alcohol-less pledge with drink in hand.
If only foresight were as clear as it's backward looking counterpart, I would never get myself in the kinds of situations I get myself into. Friday night reared its ugly head and I gave in to temptation. I bought a handle of 100 proof bottom shelf vodka. I splurged and got one step above Vladimir Vodka. Which isn't saying much considering both run at around half the price of the average spirit.
Economics teaches us that we get what we pay for, or at least we hope that we get what we pay for. In terms of "the most bang for your buck," I'm willing to put cheap vodka right up there with anything you can get in the dollar store. That being said, the analogy seems a lot more apt than it first seemed. When I buy something from the dollar store, I always expect it to be half broke or have some weird disfigurement hidden away behind the wrapper. When I unfurl that halfbreed of a whatever it is I buy at the dollar store, I always wince when opening it. Because, I, like most people, fear that which is too easy to come by. And in walks cheap vodka.
That kind of rip-roaring drunk is just way too easy to come by. When I drink cheap vodka, I'm always extra cautious. I stand in the store before I buy it and read and re-read the fine print on the bottle, half expecting there to be a clause about how purchasing the bottle will result in anal rapage. Certainly the last couple times I've done that it FELT like I was raped in the asshole, raw-dog like. No lube. And at the end of my coital adventure I got the old donkey punch. Not that I would know what that feels like, but I have an imagination and a dirty mind. Anal sex and donkey punches about sum up how I feel towards cheap vodka. I could go on to explain why that sums up my feelings, but I feel that it's better left up to the imagination.
Drinking my cheap vodka, mixed with gatorade (in the hopes that this will somehow protect me from the death grip that devil juice will have on me the next morning) I get all intellectual. Like some sort of fucked up world that cheap vodka isn't going to turn me into a baby. Slurring, drooling and shitting all over the place. This time would be different, cheap vodka had no hold on me. The gatorade was acting like a shield, in my mind. It was as if by magic, I was making witty commentary on everything in the 12'x12' world of mine that night. The visitors were impressed with the rapist's wit and the roommates were happy that vomit or any other type of bodily excretions were as yet uninvolved. Life was good.
The next morning, I awoke with nothing more than a dry mouth. Ah, the sweet smell of victory. I beat it. I was better than cheap vodka. I fucked that whore and made the dash for the door while she was passed out and unawares.
This needed to be repeated. Refilling my supply, I picked up another bottle from the local death deal-ery where satan's kool-aid is purchased and found a veritable rainbow of accessories to drink with. From orange juice to gatorade (my friend in arms from the night prior) and I even got one of those coffee drinks with all the gusto that I had found a cheap version of the White Russian.
It certainly was a cheap version of the White Russian. Emphasis on cheap and more like a white russian whore, but it was what it was. This was not the problem. The problem showed up around hour 6 of drinking in the form of a phone call. This phone call necessitated a number of things. First, in order to perform well away from home base (AKA my stash of alcohol) I was going to have to stock up for the trip. Drinking ferociously for a half hour after taking it easy for the past 6 isn't a good idea. In fact, it's fucking stupid. My wits weren't fully about me due to the slight haze I'd developed. I did it though, I drank in one half hour enough to match what I had drank the rest of the night combined. Ever so slowly the drunken stupor creeps up on me.
I stumble around the building for a while, momentarily disoriented. Why did I do that to myself? I could not remember. Just as slowly, the reason comes back to me: the phone call. Well, I've certainly gotten myself into quite a pickle.
At one point, pantsless and in a strange room, it dawns on me that even if I figured out how to get to the final destination of the evening, I had serious doubts about my ability to perform. After all, I was at that point where I would ordinarily just want to sleep. Except for all those cheap white russian whores I had fooled around with earlier, the caffeine involved wanted me to stay up.
Flash forward an hour and I vaguely remember being in a completely different strange room with totally unfamiliar faces. Who would open the door for someone like me? And where are my pants? I thought I put them back on earlier...
Stumbling back into my room, I found my pants and I remember the plan. Gotta do something about that phone call. Only problem is that it's now 4 hours later and all my vodka is gone. Presumably someone else drank the rest of it, because even though there were witnesses telling me I polished off the alcohol, I can't recall that actually happening. They are probably lying like that bitch from the night before. She only tricked me into a false sense of security Friday so that she could put the strap-on on her head and go to town on my asshole like some sort of demonic rhino. Roar! She screamed. And then I curled up in the fetal position and eventually took it, like the little bitch that I am.
It was 3 in the morning by the time I fell, fully clothed and missing my favorite blue lighter, sadly into bed. It was 3 in the morning when the cheap vodka whorebitch took back that fun I owed her from the night prior. As well as any other fun I might have had the chance to accrue over the course of my life. Swearing off alcohol for the rest of my life when I awoke, I toast you now, no more than 12 hours after that alcohol-less pledge with drink in hand.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Cowboy, the techno remix from the frozen tundra.
I just wanna dance, sometimes. And techno remixes make that transition from tactless, uncaring asshole to weebly wobbly and uncoordinated dancing fool all the more easy. Actually, alcohol does that. Lots of it.
On to the explaining: Recent discoveries in the Red Ford Focus department have led me to the life of the MP3 CD. How glorious it is to listen to 150+ songs on one cd. The exuberance felt by fucking over the man and dancing and dancing to my heart's content is so righteous that I might, in fact, be giddy.
Top five reasons I hate Meadville:
Reason #5
While washing my car this morning, the soap froze. It was at one of those put the quarters in the machine and use the pressure washer/big brush deals across town that I decided to set up shop this morning. My car had collected a bit O dirt on the 90+ mile trip I made here yesterday (in little over an hour) and rather than let my car sit and look dirty like the rest of the parking lot, I figured she needed a bath. To keep her confidence up, at the very lest. I went to the aforementioned car-washery and popped in a handful of quarters. Everything was going well until the fucking soap started freezing in little pink globules of frozen I hate this fucking place sized ice cubes adorning my car like a cracked out christmas tree. Meadville sucks, I know this would never have happened in a less frozen tundra-like climate.
Reason #4
I hit on the 16 year old cashier at Burger King last night.
Reason #3
Through some freak streak of luck this morning, as I came back from the shower, about five glass bottles flew off the window sill and onto the floor. After precariously prancing about the room trying to avoid glass in my barefeet, I got glass in my barefeet. Turns out, there was a sudden gust of wind accompanied by the pressure change from my opening of the door that smacked the blinds into the bottles with such force that the shards made a bee-line straight for my middle toe. Later during the clean-up process, the glass shards cut my hands up. I have a tiny shard of malevolence lodged firmly in my ring finger at the moment that refuses to budge. Sneering evilly, that glass and this town can go to hell.
Reason #2
This school sucks and the ugly skanks that live here can all go to hell.
Reason #1
As you can tell from reading this far, this town sucks the creativity and humor out of everything, including me. I'm going to go and try to recharge myself maybe have at this later. Maybe not, maybe I will just curl up in a ball and die. That's what it feels like I should do.
On to the explaining: Recent discoveries in the Red Ford Focus department have led me to the life of the MP3 CD. How glorious it is to listen to 150+ songs on one cd. The exuberance felt by fucking over the man and dancing and dancing to my heart's content is so righteous that I might, in fact, be giddy.
Top five reasons I hate Meadville:
Reason #5
While washing my car this morning, the soap froze. It was at one of those put the quarters in the machine and use the pressure washer/big brush deals across town that I decided to set up shop this morning. My car had collected a bit O dirt on the 90+ mile trip I made here yesterday (in little over an hour) and rather than let my car sit and look dirty like the rest of the parking lot, I figured she needed a bath. To keep her confidence up, at the very lest. I went to the aforementioned car-washery and popped in a handful of quarters. Everything was going well until the fucking soap started freezing in little pink globules of frozen I hate this fucking place sized ice cubes adorning my car like a cracked out christmas tree. Meadville sucks, I know this would never have happened in a less frozen tundra-like climate.
Reason #4
I hit on the 16 year old cashier at Burger King last night.
Reason #3
Through some freak streak of luck this morning, as I came back from the shower, about five glass bottles flew off the window sill and onto the floor. After precariously prancing about the room trying to avoid glass in my barefeet, I got glass in my barefeet. Turns out, there was a sudden gust of wind accompanied by the pressure change from my opening of the door that smacked the blinds into the bottles with such force that the shards made a bee-line straight for my middle toe. Later during the clean-up process, the glass shards cut my hands up. I have a tiny shard of malevolence lodged firmly in my ring finger at the moment that refuses to budge. Sneering evilly, that glass and this town can go to hell.
Reason #2
This school sucks and the ugly skanks that live here can all go to hell.
Reason #1
As you can tell from reading this far, this town sucks the creativity and humor out of everything, including me. I'm going to go and try to recharge myself maybe have at this later. Maybe not, maybe I will just curl up in a ball and die. That's what it feels like I should do.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
I've got a doodle, a noodle, a bottle of aveeno, tube socks and some melted wax.
Top five reasons not to go out on a Thursday night.
Reason #5
Everyone knows about Fox's The O.C. whether they love it or hate, people tend to have an opinion on it. Personally, I think it's one of the best new shows out there. The characters are easy to relate to with their incredible wealth and private schools, I feel like I could fit right in. It's warm where they are in sunny socal, which is what I wish it were here (present circumstances aside) all the time. They've had gun fights and girl fights, fist fights and a fuckin killer soundtrack. The O.C. is on at 9 on Thursday nights and is one hell of a reason to stay in.
Reason #4
Masturbate! Jesus christ, you can't possibly make it all week without gettin' one off. Shootin' one out. [Whatever euphemism you like to use.] Lord knows there is no reason to not take an entire block of 8 hours or so Thursday evening to late night Thursday just punching the old fiddle stick time after time. You rub about 76 out and you'll be sleeping like a baby, ready for the weekend and rested like a champ.
Reason #3
Speaking of rest, what day is better than Thursday to stay in and re-charge for the weekend. The Wednesday hump day is over and the downhill slide is upon you, use Thursday night to stay one step ahead of the game and go into Friday super ready to get smashtaplasteredwastedrunkshithoused all over the place. Thursday night's rest will give you that extra push you need when it's 1AM at the bar and the only prospect for you to get any action is that 700 LB monster tard at the end of the bar. Go ahead, grab a bag of flour and just aim for the wet spot.
Reason #2
You're not going to like me when I'm angry. Or at least that's what this Thursday had to say with The Hulk on USA. I've found that cable channels tend to put better movies on towards the end of the week than they do at the beginning. I guess this is an attempt at seeing a hike in the ratings, but it's better than buying that movie or renting it at blockbuster. I mean, hell, waiting for a movie to come out for sale is just a few months from waiting for it to come out somewhere on cable lately. And for those of you who have digital cable, you can even get some of the movies there before they even come out for sale. Also porn. Rent some softcore porn on a Thursday night and spank it. Go back and read Reason #4 for more info on this subject. It's still a great idea.
Reason #1
I like to go out on Thursday nights. So if I can convince a few people to stay in on Thursday nights and they can convince a few and so on and so forth, I can get some better service at whichever establishment I choose to go to because there will be less loser, like you, mucking up the works. So for my enjoyment and your own good to read more top five lists in the future, stay your ass at home and jerk it or whatever. Double click your mouse, you know, whatever it is kids call it these days.
Reason #5
Everyone knows about Fox's The O.C. whether they love it or hate, people tend to have an opinion on it. Personally, I think it's one of the best new shows out there. The characters are easy to relate to with their incredible wealth and private schools, I feel like I could fit right in. It's warm where they are in sunny socal, which is what I wish it were here (present circumstances aside) all the time. They've had gun fights and girl fights, fist fights and a fuckin killer soundtrack. The O.C. is on at 9 on Thursday nights and is one hell of a reason to stay in.
Reason #4
Masturbate! Jesus christ, you can't possibly make it all week without gettin' one off. Shootin' one out. [Whatever euphemism you like to use.] Lord knows there is no reason to not take an entire block of 8 hours or so Thursday evening to late night Thursday just punching the old fiddle stick time after time. You rub about 76 out and you'll be sleeping like a baby, ready for the weekend and rested like a champ.
Reason #3
Speaking of rest, what day is better than Thursday to stay in and re-charge for the weekend. The Wednesday hump day is over and the downhill slide is upon you, use Thursday night to stay one step ahead of the game and go into Friday super ready to get smashtaplasteredwastedrunkshithoused all over the place. Thursday night's rest will give you that extra push you need when it's 1AM at the bar and the only prospect for you to get any action is that 700 LB monster tard at the end of the bar. Go ahead, grab a bag of flour and just aim for the wet spot.
Reason #2
You're not going to like me when I'm angry. Or at least that's what this Thursday had to say with The Hulk on USA. I've found that cable channels tend to put better movies on towards the end of the week than they do at the beginning. I guess this is an attempt at seeing a hike in the ratings, but it's better than buying that movie or renting it at blockbuster. I mean, hell, waiting for a movie to come out for sale is just a few months from waiting for it to come out somewhere on cable lately. And for those of you who have digital cable, you can even get some of the movies there before they even come out for sale. Also porn. Rent some softcore porn on a Thursday night and spank it. Go back and read Reason #4 for more info on this subject. It's still a great idea.
Reason #1
I like to go out on Thursday nights. So if I can convince a few people to stay in on Thursday nights and they can convince a few and so on and so forth, I can get some better service at whichever establishment I choose to go to because there will be less loser, like you, mucking up the works. So for my enjoyment and your own good to read more top five lists in the future, stay your ass at home and jerk it or whatever. Double click your mouse, you know, whatever it is kids call it these days.
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