Observations from a Morning After
Right. So, first and foremost, if you saw my ill fated status post last night (since deleted) please be aware that allowing someone to do conversions in their head at 1AM while plastered is not an excellent idea.
I did not drink three pints of vodka last night, I drank two. At the time of the posting, I had consumed three CUPS of vodka, a considerably smaller sum. Currently, my inner comp-sci nerd is weeping silently that I could not tell the difference between 8 and 16 last night.
At any rate, the continuing attempts to gauge how much I can drink before developing a hangover are going quite well. Upon the completion of the 32nd ounce, I was no longer comfortable reciting the alphabet backwards, and fucked up tuv-vut and pqr-rqp. I was interested to discover, though, that I performed the task much, much faster after the 8th ounce than when sober.
Consequently, the reason behind drinking such an immense quantity was to do the usual 21 shots on your 21st game.
I woke up this morning still drunk, but am confident that I am no longer. I say this because I can now successfully navigate the labryinthine task that is walking the dog while wearing roller skates.
I do not have a headache, nausea or light sensitivity. However, I am paying for my decisions last night in a truly unique way, well suited to my personal lifestyle.
You see, 'tis the spring blooming season, which, if you will direct your gaze outside the nearest window, means that everything is coated in a thin veneer of limey yellow pollen. This includes my nasal passages, which do not take to the intrusion lightly.
On a regular night, I would have woken several times to address this issue, by standing up straight, perhaps blowing my nose, and repairing my poor abused throat (mouth breathing! Awful stuff...) with a glass of warm water.
When one is trashed beyond comprehension, one tends not to notice the little things like your throat trying to crawl out of your body in a quest for hydration.
Eventually the pain-to-BAC ratio shifted enough that I dredged myself into consciousness (a paltry four hours after giving in to slumber) and I realized that I could neither breath through my nose nor my mouth. My nose was physically blocked, and my throat burned so fiercely that mere air was enough to nearly kill me.
Several salt washes, two warm glasses of tea, and cayenne chicken soup later, I can almost breath normally, but I suspect the pain shan't pass for quite some time.
The lack of sleep is also starting to settle in, as one sleeps lightly and fitfully when drunk, and only four hours of this wretched sleep is not enough to empower the body to handle the massive detox. METHANOL WOO.
I think methanol is the word I am seeking.
I shall google.
Wikipedia served only to confuse me with its chemistry talk, but I believe I shall revise my opinion to ACETIC ACID! WOO. That seems to be the primary cause of the detox exhaustion? I'm not sure.
Nonetheless, I appear to be a fully functioning human adult this morning, certainly more sensible than Ryan, who has literally spent the last four hours staring at his PSP. I think I shall never feel the same way about the victory chimes from final fantasy again. Anything can get grating after enough exposure.
Molly the Papillon, by the by, has decided that I'm some sort of psychopath. To be perfectly honest, I don't remember too much past midnight, but I have recollections of hugging her for an extended period of time.
Ah yes! And today I shall see if "Dead Like Me" is as good sober as it was drunk. I always leave this house with a new TV series to pick up. Madness, I tell you. Madness.
I did not drink three pints of vodka last night, I drank two. At the time of the posting, I had consumed three CUPS of vodka, a considerably smaller sum. Currently, my inner comp-sci nerd is weeping silently that I could not tell the difference between 8 and 16 last night.
At any rate, the continuing attempts to gauge how much I can drink before developing a hangover are going quite well. Upon the completion of the 32nd ounce, I was no longer comfortable reciting the alphabet backwards, and fucked up tuv-vut and pqr-rqp. I was interested to discover, though, that I performed the task much, much faster after the 8th ounce than when sober.
Consequently, the reason behind drinking such an immense quantity was to do the usual 21 shots on your 21st game.
I woke up this morning still drunk, but am confident that I am no longer. I say this because I can now successfully navigate the labryinthine task that is walking the dog while wearing roller skates.
I do not have a headache, nausea or light sensitivity. However, I am paying for my decisions last night in a truly unique way, well suited to my personal lifestyle.
You see, 'tis the spring blooming season, which, if you will direct your gaze outside the nearest window, means that everything is coated in a thin veneer of limey yellow pollen. This includes my nasal passages, which do not take to the intrusion lightly.
On a regular night, I would have woken several times to address this issue, by standing up straight, perhaps blowing my nose, and repairing my poor abused throat (mouth breathing! Awful stuff...) with a glass of warm water.
When one is trashed beyond comprehension, one tends not to notice the little things like your throat trying to crawl out of your body in a quest for hydration.
Eventually the pain-to-BAC ratio shifted enough that I dredged myself into consciousness (a paltry four hours after giving in to slumber) and I realized that I could neither breath through my nose nor my mouth. My nose was physically blocked, and my throat burned so fiercely that mere air was enough to nearly kill me.
Several salt washes, two warm glasses of tea, and cayenne chicken soup later, I can almost breath normally, but I suspect the pain shan't pass for quite some time.
The lack of sleep is also starting to settle in, as one sleeps lightly and fitfully when drunk, and only four hours of this wretched sleep is not enough to empower the body to handle the massive detox. METHANOL WOO.
I think methanol is the word I am seeking.
I shall google.
Wikipedia served only to confuse me with its chemistry talk, but I believe I shall revise my opinion to ACETIC ACID! WOO. That seems to be the primary cause of the detox exhaustion? I'm not sure.
Nonetheless, I appear to be a fully functioning human adult this morning, certainly more sensible than Ryan, who has literally spent the last four hours staring at his PSP. I think I shall never feel the same way about the victory chimes from final fantasy again. Anything can get grating after enough exposure.
Molly the Papillon, by the by, has decided that I'm some sort of psychopath. To be perfectly honest, I don't remember too much past midnight, but I have recollections of hugging her for an extended period of time.
Ah yes! And today I shall see if "Dead Like Me" is as good sober as it was drunk. I always leave this house with a new TV series to pick up. Madness, I tell you. Madness.