I Fear My Hangovers

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hangoverssuck

I’m starting to preemptively fear my hangovers, and it’s getting debilitating. Every single weekend of drinking is now basically the equivalent of choosing the wrong grail.

This weekend I will be in Baton Rouge with Jared and Goldman for Alabama-LSU on Saturday, as well as a Lil Wayne and Rich Homie Quan concert Friday night. I have to imagine some combination of whatever Fred’s serves me and whatever other evil I force into my body on Friday night, coupled with an entire Saturday on the parade grounds, and then whatever I pour down my throat despite everything my brain and body does to stop me, will make the drive back my own personal Bataan Death March.*

*That’s not hyperbole. I’ve decided that if other people from my generation are encouraged to act like what they go through is as bad as all the pain and indignities suffered by people in the past, then so can I. Which is why when I pulled my hammy the other day while jogging I immediately empathized with all the Union soldiers who had their legs amputated without anesthetics. Respect, Billy Yank. [insert fist emoji]. You should try this, you guys, it’s actually super fun. I get the appeal now.

There is a significant portion of me that is not looking forward to a weekend that I know is going to be outrageously fun. I’m going to be like a kid at Disney World. (And my liver is going to be the grandparent your family inadvisably brings along and who passes out from heat stroke in the afternoon. And then kid is all mad because Grandma ruined the best day ever with her oldness. But, the parents feel bad, and buy the kid extra treats and Disney swag to make up for leaving the park early, so everything works out. And also Grandma lives. For a little while longer, anyway. This analogy has long been exhausted.)

Because of that, though, Sunday is going to be a head viced, anxiety ridden nightmare. I’m going to need an obese family’s worth of Whataburger and half a bottle of Advil just to be able to make noises come out of my mouth. It won’t be speaking, though. If I could, I’d drown myself trying to drink an entire swimming pool filled with Smart Water. I will buttchug Pedialyte I swear to God.

I’ll probably get back home to Austin in the evening, shuffle into my apartment, fall down onto my sofa, and spend three hours working up the energy to order more food. Undoubtedly, whatever shitty NFL game I turn on is somehow only going to make my hangover worse. The NFL is awful. Fuck this Sunday. Fuck it to death.

This Sunday dread has become increasingly common for me. Two weeks ago, when I had to drive 13 hours all the way back from Missouri to Austin, after two days of Homecoming punishment probably just as severe as a Roman criminal who was lashed and crucified (it feels so good to express myself honestly), I sat in a Panera in Jefferson City around lunch time, unable to taste or even identify the food I had just ordered. I wondered if I would end up crashing my car and dying in Oklahoma or Texas. Eventually I decided I probably wasn’t even going to make it out of Missouri. There was going to be a little white cross with my name on it on the side of the road, overshadowed by a food exit sign with Bob Evans and Taco Bell logos on it, and a billboard advertising various washed up comedians performing at godforsaken Oklahoma Indian casinos. Most frequently Ralphie May, if I had to guess.

I do not look forward to settling back into that physical and mental state. At least we’re making Jared drive this time. Either way, approaching this Sunday is definitely exactly what it felt to be like to motor up to Omaha Beach in a Higgins boat.

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