Hangover
What really gets me about hangovers is the way that my thoughts work as I move through the morning after the night before. Normally the important thoughts, like “I need to do some shopping” or “If I don’t eat something, I’ll die” float in and out of my daily random musings, such as “I wonder if sharks will ever learn to walk on their tails” and “I wonder if cats know that humans aren’t cats”, leaving me more or less at the whim of my poor, broken brain as it tumbles around in its chaotic way. On any given day there’s a good chance that I’ll forget to eat for a good few hours, then realise that I’m out of food, and then I’ll fall asleep hungry and tortured by unanswered questions about animals.
When I’m hungover, however, my thoughts form a neat orderly line and the important ones reminding me that I’m in incredible pain, that I feel sick, and that I desperately need pizza all push to the front, all vying for my attention so much that I only catch the briefest glimpses of the other thoughts, the tangents, the stuff that gets me through my day. I suppose it’s some kind of survival mechanism, my body deciding that it really needs me to be trying my hardest to stay alive rather than philosophising about the nature of kittens. Were I in charge it would be different, of course, but that’s just the way my brain works. This makes my hungover days less than enjoyable: I can’t write, I can’t think straight, I can’t even watch a movie without my brain going “HEY MAC! HOW ABOUT SOME WATER HUH? THAT WOULD BE GREAT!” and interrupting the best bits.
Anyone who’s ever written anything has tried to describe a hangover and failed. This is because the mood only ever takes you when you’re suffering from such a beast and all of your creativity is pushed to the back of your skull by concerns about the number of cocopops left in the packet. When you’re in this state, though, the only thing you can think about is your hangover and so you sit down and you try your best. Right now I’m suffering from the aftermath of somewhere close to 48 hours of white wine abuse, coupled with some serious confusion about my sleep pattern and a fairly messed up eating situation to add insult to injury. I feel like I’ve been tortured for a week, it’s like I haven’t slept despite my 9 or 10 hours of unconsciousness, I feel hungry but I can’t eat, and I still can’t walk in a straight line. The sun shines in through cracks in my blinds and leaves trails on my eyes that linger for far too long and light up like Vegas whenever I blink. In 45 minutes I have to get up and go to work. I’m almost looking forward to it: I’ll get to switch off and run on automatic for a while. When you’re hungover, having a simple task to do is the best thing you can hope for, it means that you can occupy yourself for hours and not have to think about the pain and the hunger and the flashing lights behind your eyes.