The Hangover
June 08, 2009
A sinewy beast is the hangover. It coils itself around your brain, squeezing, tighter when you bend over or are surprised by loud noises.
It forces you into the day by itching your bladder and removing all saliva from your mouth. It recoils from the bright shards of sunlight stabbing through the curtains. It sends you stumbling to the bathroom, red-eyed and fur-tongued. It removes some of your memory. Key moments of the night before are turned to fiction. How did I get home? No clue.
The hangover is your friend and your enemy. It needs feeding. Sugar and fat and lots of tea. It craves the shadows and quiet corners. It lingers sometimes. A companion. A monkey ring under Tripitaka’s bidding, or the old man of the sea clinging to Sinbad’s back. Like a conscience. It whispers to you ‘you like me, you need me, you drank me’ and you reply slack jawed and spinning. Never again.
‘Til the next time.
‘Til the next time.
