The Hungover

There’s something about a night of heavy drinking. People usually enjoy the antic and imbibing. The marathon night of sexual debauchery, the epic pub crawl, the succession of Cuervo shots that had you spinning like a top for the first available vomit receptacle; all of these more or less cover the gamete of an alcohol fueled night. I’m exactly the opposite. I hate drinking. I loathe almost all drinking games, especially beer pong (most inconsequential game on the face of the planet, yet people frequently use it as a source of validation. When you inform me that you are good at beer pong, I immediately have written you off as a) someone who is badly in need of means to justify your existence or b) a non-entity). That’s not to say I drink. I drink until a visor goes over my eye’s like Bender, even though I bear a closer resemblance to Fry (well I guess that is an odd observation to make, because who resembles a robot?). Most of the reason I drink to the point of blackout so often is because I hate being self-aware while doing something I have exponential distaste for. “All alcohol tastes terrible,” decries a surprisingly astute cook at my restaurant. We all know it’s true, but would rather join someone in obvious self-denial than belabor that point. I obliterate myself on a jumble of dark beers, IPAs and my general and offensive coordinator for the night, Jack Daniel’s. Whatever has high alcohol content, I slam unemotionally because I can’t stand to see its contents. It’s my own personal contraband, and I swallow it in mass quantities because I don’t to be caught possessing liquid contraband by my own personal monitor: me.

Why do I drink?

That’s simple. I love being hungover. I adore it. I thrive in its haze and pain. The call for greasy food and the day spent watching hours and hours of TV, lying out on a couch surrounded by the traces of last night’s activities, finished food wrappers and your companions, nothing is a higher form of camaraderie to me. The best part is the stories. People telling me how they climbed up our house’s Ionic column to get into the second story or how they slept on the couch even though their bed is ten feet away. People are more honest when they’re hungover. I always think of hospital patients under heavy sedation when I muse about the inherent honesty and thus brilliant storytelling of those nursing a hangover. Whenever I’ve been sedated, I’ve only been able to articulate through the emotion I feel the person directly personifies. And because those speaking to me while I’m sedated at the hospital are generally my caretakers or my family and friends, I love all of them equally. Having a hangover with others around you is similar, but it’s like commiserating with the other patients who share your room and happen to have been part of the same accident that got you there in the first place. You can’t despise each other because you’re both incapacitated in the same sorry state. Instead, you totally accept the other person. They’ve suffered the same burdens and endured the exact same treatment, so your similarities make interaction so brilliantly honest and articulate.

This is why I always prefer to be hanging out with those who I spent the night before with, both figuratively and literally. I recognize that their last 12 hours are incredibly similar to my own: heavy drinking, absurd antics and low REM sleep resulting in severe dehydration. One of the crew may have experienced a “this-is-not-my-ceiling” morning, the other a porcelain bed and perhaps one more waking up spooning a 49.5 cent taco. All stories are told with great detail, painting the magnificent art-piece that captures the night before semi-vividly. It’s a brilliant mosaic, each little detail a tiny stone or dulled piece of glass.

Why do I drink?

Because I love to be a part of the story.

For some reason the college Web site Collegehumor.com refuses to embrace the college cultural norm of video sharing, so I was unable to embed this hilarious description of the morning after, a parody on theat annoyingly repetitive "Tonight's going to be a good night" song. I assume that's probably the song title because that's the only intelligible thing they say in the song beside "Mazel Tov." So it could be entitled "Mazel Tov." Ask a female. Anyway, here's the link to it:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCGmjmazE5c&feature=topvideos

-Mozart