A Hangover From Hell
When I visualize Hell, I don’t picture demons, the devil, or eternal damnation. I picture the misery of a wretched hangover.
After a night of unlimited beer on the streets of Cusco, Peru, I woke up fully clothed in my bed with faint memories of cheap cigarettes and impassioned conversations with sleazy club promoters. By a miracle that violated the Newtonian laws of physics, my booze bag of a body navigated the cobblestoned streets back to the tucked away hostel I called home.
The back of my throat tasted like an ashtray soaked in Bud Light. Every heartbeat sent a rusted dagger through my brain. The summer sun flooded the room, leaving my vision blurred and body paralyzed. My stomach felt like I’d eaten rotten bananas and chugged curdled milk. I wanted to dry heave, but the 30 foot journey to the bathroom felt insurmountable. So I just laid face down, soaked in the misery of my bad decisions.
The physical pains of a demonic hangover are enough to cause nightmares, but once the waves of metaphysical shame wash over your dehydrated headspace you’re ready to find the nearest church and start praying. Maybe you forgot about a massive school project or maybe you promised your dear grandmother you’d meet her for lunch. Maybe you went out drinking the previous night to forget about someone or something, and when morning inevitably comes, the brick wall of sobriety hits harder than a Mike Tyson uppercut. Your Granny will have to accept a rain check and your senior project will be half assed, and all because you couldn’t handle your booze.
My mom had arrived in Cusco the night before my ill advised binge drinking, and I was meant to be her tour guide through the city I’d come to know over the past 6 weeks. All my mom got was an incoherent text about how I’m in grave pain and possibly paralyzed. I begged her to bring me coconut water, and thanks to the unconditional love of mothers, she did.
Metaphysical guilt results in self pity, and self pity eventually turns to self loathing. Past generations fought in world wars that changed the fate of modern civilization, inner city fathers work two jobs just to put food on the table, and Tom Brady won 6 Super Bowls. Then there’s you, helpless and pathetic, immobilized due to an act of reckless self poisioning. As writer Henry Rollins loves to say, you’ve got nobody to blame but yourself.
As all hangovers do, mine faded. It lingered for a day or two, but soon I was back on my feet, eager to right the ship and recover what it felt like to be human. I’m weary of turning a short story about irresponsible boozing into a lesson about gratitude, but it’s easy to forget how wonderful waking up with the proper amount of electrolytes truly is. The simple pleasure of following a morning routine is greatly amplified when you take the time to reflect on your darkest of days. A glass of water emits a holy aura when you remember how desperate you once were.
Alcohol is like playing with fire. You can roast S’mores around a campfire, but that same fire can burn your house down. A 24 rack with some friends makes for a great night, but once somebody pulls out a bottle of vodka, you’re flirting with Satan.
Music:
// Raspberry Jam // Allah-Las
// Other Flowers // Vundabar
// Stonecutters // Dope Lemon
