Jesus Monkey Flavored Christ
I woke up today with a hangover that gave me super powers. Power that allow me to feel pain and misery unlike any person before. Like Daredevil, I could hear the slightest whisper of every sound. I could hear my skin sliding across the soft material of the pillow as I slowly turned my 1000 pound head. I could hear my brain literally adjusting itself in my skull. I knew there was something terribly wrong, when what sounded like a drum solo turned out to be the feet of the toddler that lives two doors down attempting to walk.
Despite my super hearing, I was unable to form coherent thoughts or sentences. This is a hangover of the ages. A hangover SO bad, that you don’t actually realize it’s bad, until you come out of it slightly and realize that you’re not supposed to contemplate suicide 15 times a second for 89 minutes straight. Then it occurs to you, yes, something might be wrong.
I took 4 ibuprofen and my hangover literally laughed and tossed them back out of my throat with a girlish giggle. Pure bottled water tasted like motor oil that’s been sieved through the hands of glass coated giants who also hate me and love to play giant cymbals. At some point a full 32 piece orchestra broke into full song with a screaming tibetan monk as a solo, that turned out to be my cellphone ringing. Luckily i’ve mastered the art of moving only my hand while not disturbing the delicate balance of my head on top of a thousand needles coated in pain.
At some point the hangover reached a dreamlike fever pitch, where the colors of the rainbow literally wrote the 150 ways they would like me to die, while chanting and parading every single drink from the night before in front of me. It was like a grotesque chorus line designed to break my spirit. My spirit, not to be outdone, decided it would not only break, but make an awful keening sound for about 8 minutes, which turned out to be me, crying softly into my pillow because i’d been laying on my left testicle rather painfully for about 10 minutes and not noticing. The pins and needles that my dangling buddy was indeed still capable of pumping shoved stupid blood to brain, that only served to remind me more and more. That I should never drink that much again, which is, what I say, EVERY time this happens.
So here’s to the hangover that actually went out, got a job, paid rent and moved into my room so it could make everything smell like sweat, booze, blood and failure. Which I rinse off in a shower that sounds like 80,000 watts of waterfall going off inside my grimacing face.
I apologize in advance to myself, when I’m able to actually read this and punch myself in the dick for being an idiot.
– I bid you, Ow my fucking head hurts and I hate everything, farewell