NEVER AGAIN AGAIN
I guess I could call a doctor. Any movement is out but a phone call is still possible. But what would I say?
Doctor, are your treatment methods limited to medicine, liquids and food, or do you take hangovers more seriously? What is your moral threshold in experimenting with alternative methods? In your experience, has anyone been permanently affected by a hangover? Like LSD, going so far that they have only partly returned? With a permanent haze in their eyes that looks like a longing for who they used to be before the hangover.
I could call my ex, the one I dumped who stalks me, and feed off her adoration. I could call my vet and talk about my Chihuahua’s health history, because my vet’s voice is calming and there’s nothing wrong with my Chihuahua. I could call my Mom and tell her she was right from the start, since birth, right about everything, so I can wallow in the bath of her righteousness, completely relinquishing all self will; anything not to feel like a human poo right now, next to my also-hungover boyfriend.
What’s definitely going to make me feel better is food. 1, it will also make me feel fat, and 2, how would I order it? Between the following two ordering options, A and B, which is the worse?
A: Waking my boyfriend up just to make him scour Seamless and choose a restaurant when I know he pukes when he eats hungover.
B: Going on Seamless and scrolling through choices when the one thing I can’t do right now is CHOOSE. Knowing that whatever I order I won’t like anyway because I don’t know who I am anymore, and the food won’t be good regardless, because Seamless is not Caviar, and I refuse to sign up for a new delivery service when I only have a handful of operational brain cells available.
It is, however, perfectly valid to wake my boyfriend up for sex. Yes, what will definitely make me feel better is the half-assed sex that brainless Brooklynites have when they’re hungover in their thirties.
How does a human poo copulate?
I shouldn’t have to make myself sexy though, should I? He should just fuck me based solely on an understanding of hangovers, nothing provoked, no direct eye contact. The problem is reciprocation. I want him to go down on me and go back to sleep, because I barely have the energy to pick up my own phone right now so how can I be expected to reciprocate with a blowjob? I’m going to sit up, see if the fog clears at a higher altitude.
What will definitely make me feel better is having an argument with him. This is positive, taking self-hate and turning it around so that it points to the nearest person – so that self hate becomes just hate.
And what’s wrong with the person near me? “You’re under-dating again. You’re smarter than he is. You should have stayed gay – you should have stayed undefined and shunned intimacy and commitment because it’s the pits when you’re hungover (the voices say).”
But what’s really honestly wrong with your boyfriend?
He’s gained weight, he makes less money, he doesn’t eat pears, he’s never lived in Europe – no one willingly dates an American, do they? It’s only because of the numbers; so many Americans in America – and worst of all, your boyfriend’s worst flaw, is that he’s dating YOU.
Tangent:
The etymology of “human poo.” First cited in 2001 by my lawyer Richard in line at the MoMa, after a guy laid a fart bomb so sincere, with so much determination, that its circle of destruction spread outwards to at least 7 people on each side of him, lingering with the heaviness of a broken heart and causing something not entirely dissimilar to depression.
I throw my phone at him. He wakes up startled, sees the hate in my eyes and asks questions that I swat away. I break up with him, tell him to get out. This gives me a little energy. I tell him he’s the worst person I’ve ever met, and this gives me more energy. He realizes I want to have sex with him and criticizes how I go about asking for it – “I’m tired of how you ask me for sex”. But ASKING isn’t something I was raised to do so obviously he doesn’t know me at all:
“If you were the last man on earth I’d masturbate.”
We have sex. I prolong it in an act of vengeance and acquiesce to an orgasm. The chemicals feel like medicine and slowly the fog clears, just enough, so that I can see my situation clearly again:
I am actually gorgeous. I am rich. The interior design of my house shows an understanding of life comparable only to that of a film auteur. The tiles of my kitchen backsplash that delayed my renovation considerably were handmade by aliens in Fiji. My boyfriend is the envy of my male friends. I am tri-coastal. My first name was the first of its kind and because of the impression I have made in my short time it has risen to the top of Baby Name Lists worldwide.
This call for a celebration, I tell him.
He walks away, and when he returns, looking exactly like the acquired taste I signed up for – shaved head (not bald), gap in his teeth, long eye lashes, flabby body with thought-provoking tattoos – he holds in his hand a very cold and very expensive bottle of something that has never failed to multiply itself into the evening like cancerous cells: something that has caused me hundreds of thousands of dollars in mistakes; indirectly leading to STDs, break ups, car accidents, car purchases, car thefts, and sex in cars:
A bottle of Bollinger.
“It’s the only thing that’ll fix your hangover,” he says.
