Hangovers are the overly attached new friends of drinking: you wake up, and someone you met the night before has already texted you, added you on Facebook, and is making dinner plans. They take over your life for one or two days, and then hopefully they’re gone forever. I have a new friend. I want it to die.
I’ve had a two-day hangover before. I’ve had hangovers where I felt like I was an old piece of fruit that had been hit by a train. I’ve never had one like this, and it’s not because I was less responsible last night than I’ve ever been. It’s not because it was an amazing wedding reception with a full bar stocked by a bunch of people with very unhealthy drinking habits.
It’s because, by the time I was drinking, I had eaten very little and also done an 11-mile hike, half of which was up a mountain. A mountain named Humphreys, because, for the second time now, I’ve had to hike up a mountain with the name of a bank teller that is jealous of people brave enough to wear suspenders.
It’s weird to feel like my body has been left in a dryer full of rocks when I was feeling just wonderful last night, but waking up this morning was like discovering my muscles had already begun to rot when it’s only my spirit that has died.
I want it to end.
Short post sponsored by suffering and alcohol and hiking.