When I was much younger than I am now, I could drink and drink and then drink a little bit more and never be hungover. I don’t think I experienced my first hangover until I was 28 or 29, however old I was when Sister #3 got married. I remember calling my mom and telling her that I was pretty sure there was poison running through my veins, probably some sort of poisonous acid.
She told me I was hungover. I wasn’t sure what was more painful, the acid running through my body of the fact that I was not immortal and could become hungover. While I was cursing God, my Mom, and America, I wondered why people would drink so much that they would feel this awful the next day. Who in their right mind would do this to themselves?
The absolutely ridiculous that’s who. I know this, because I am one of them.
I don’t know what possessed me to act like I was 24 rather than 34. I think it was the sexxiness of the stretch limo, or perhaps it was the Vodo’s voodoo, in all actuality it was more than likely FFFJ’s utter fabulousness. She’s fucking magic people, I tell ya.
But Holy Hannah, that magic can come with a wicked-high price. I’ve been a brain-dead, acid-blooded zombie for a greater part of the day. A day spent randomly napping in the comfy green chair between episodes of Richie Rich, Baby Loony Tunes, and Tom & Jerry. It was only after a dinner that invovled actual vegetables and about 39 gallons of water that I have started to feel sub-human again. I think we can officially declare my birthday over. It was mind-blowingly amazing. I hope 34 treats me better than I have been treating it.