Can we talk about hangovers, just for a second? I know, the ‘waa-waa-I’m-hungover’ spiel is tantamount to looking at other folk’s holiday snaps for sheer boredom value, but please bear with me. As you know, currying sympathy from everyone is the only fun part of this situation.
Fuck me, but my head is in a right jocker today.
What started out innocently enough as a few innocent, sociable cocktails in Solas ended in a most undignified fashion. Regrettably, the Inventory Of Shame now runneth over: I ended up in Whelan’s – feeling like a relic – applying freshly-bought Origins body lotion to folk’s faces (yes, I’m that kind of drunk girl), and harassed total strangers into playing ’20 dirty questions’. There is a boy pounding the streets of Dublin today that knows more about me than almost every guy I’ve ever slept with. He wasn’t not even that cute, certainly not cute enough to warrant that sort of classified information. But in vino veritas and all that shite.
This morning, I felt as though my brain was bathing in acid and my gob was like Gandhi’s blummin’ flip-flop. With the smallest turn on the pillow, each brain cell moaned, heaved and squeaked in protest. I felt like I was sweating pure rum. I tried to summon my hand to reach for a bedside glass of water, but no dice. Way too much effort. Still, I think I’ve come off a little bit better than another pal of mine, who managed to throw a bass amp out a third storey window last night in his inebriated state.
But now, it’s 5pm; I am unshowered, unmotivated and, as my mother might say, droopy-drawered in general. Another day wasted. Arse.
Mercifully, I have already stumbled by chance upon a rather effective hangover cure: lashings of Pineapple juice, Sigur Ros and orgasms (not necessarily administered in that order). Breakfast roll; optional.
How about you? Can anyone else do better than that on the hangover cure front? Do tell…