Last night, after having had a wonderful, laid-back, toxin-free afternoon (unless you call sun a toxin, which I’m incapable of doing), I decided that rather than sitting in my house doing mostly nothing, I would go out. I did not get far–I went first to my workplace, then to a bar right around the corner from it, where my niece’s boyfriend was spinning. I had never before been into the aforementioned nearby bar, so when I ordered a Sapphire gimlet, I didn’t realize it would be served in a sheetrock bucket and cost as much as a middle-of-the-road steak. I’m talking about a martini glass so big that one could actually, if gravity had spectacular aim, pass out in it. A veritable vat of gin with not much else in it. After I gasped out loud at the price of my drink ($11) and told him I better start tripping after I finished it, the bartender allowed me to help myself to the fruit tray. I have a rather significant lime addiction, but no amount of freshly-squoze lime is gonna make a swimming pool full of gin anything less than utterly poisonous. So of course I had two. I’m not sure if was the booze that made me opt for round 2 or if I was still reasonable at that point and simply wanted an excuse to stare at the bartender’s fantastic tattoos, but at some point I made the decision that ultimately doomed me.
This morning I woke up at nine-thirty a.m., drunk. Shitfaced. Plastered. Reeling around my messy room like Hunter S. Thompson in a hotel in Vegas. I promptly embarked upon an epic Excedrin binge, after which I attempted to return to the peace-less slumber from which I’d risen, quite unsuccessfully. And no, it was not the caffeine. I keep forgetting, on the rare occasion when I veer from my normal beer routine, that hard liquor wakes me up early and still drunk. For several hours I lolled around miserably in my bed, then at about noon, I took more Excedrin, drank about a gallon of water and attempted to sleep and failed again. Sometime mid-afternoon, mother nature decided that I wasn’t in enough pain already and horse-kicked me in the abdomen. This, of course, provoked another pharmaceutical cocktail: Ibuprofen, Pepto and black coffee. None of it worked for at least two hours. Nor did the Rock Star I downed within minutes of arriving at work.
Eventually, the whole army of drugs I ingested decided to band together and complete its collective mission, and I miraculously felt human again by about six o’clock and made it through my shift without keeling over onto a pool table or ripping anybody’s face off. By about ten, I’d pieced together the scattered fragments of the end of my evening and reassured myself that–to the best of the knowledge of everyone I remember talking to–I did not make a monumentous ass of myself before stumbling back into my workplace and promptly going to sleep with my head on the bar. The most amusing discovery was that I’d answered the phone during the worst part of my inebriation and told my friend, “I can’t talk to you right now,” and hung up on her.
Now, with my bloodstream most likely clear of all of the aforementioned pharmaceuticals, I feel as though my veins are filled with liquid lead and I’m practically ecstatic, because I know with a near-absolute certainty that I will sleep–without flail–until the hideous screaming of my alarm clock wakes me, no earlier than half-past noon. And if I “poison” myself again in the next seven days, I’m damn well going to do it with plants. They’re so much more forgiving in the morning.