Day 81

Second morning in a row of squinting through an impossible crack in the thickening wall of hangover. Head like a cannonball; legs like two telegraph poles. Lordy save my soul.

They really do get worse the older you get. Sometimes, shock treatment’s the best for a stinking head. The sweaty drink-sopped sickness of morning needs to be kicked from out of the guts. The bucket of icy water; the forehand slap across the cheek and another back for good measure. They concentrate the mind better than any concoction of raw eggs, tomato juice and whatever else lunatic folk-law reckons to turn a hangover into rising steam.

I actually did it, cracked myself across the cheek just then. And it stings.

A sharp pain in the face displaces a lingering one in the head, and surprise, properly administered, ought to shift both.

But it’s important to remember with this medicine that dosage is crucial. A broken nose, for instance, doesn’t cut it; a misplaced left-hook and the sight of blood can put the patient into irretrievable relapse.

It feels like it’s been boiled through a pressure cooker, and the rest of my body is dry too. I feel like a stuffed bird in a taxidermist’s window; there’s nothing inside me but hot sand.

So, onwards. Typing typing typing.

~ by David Thorley on April 23, 2010.

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