Well it looks like the chickens have finally come home to roost. I always knew this day would eventually come, I just didn’t think it would be so damn soon. Pray for me.
I’m only in my mid-twenties, but I somehow have the body and liver of a terminally ill, 91-year-old war veteran. Whenever I drink, the next day is an unimaginable hellhole of physical pain and existential dread. Not too long ago, things weren’t like this. I blame Obama. I don’t know why, but I do.
I have no idea how this happened so quickly. For years, older people have warned me that one day my hangovers are going to get way worse, but I didn’t think that would happen until my late 20s. I used to be able to drink like a monster, get Charlie Sheen-level annihilated, and wake up the next day feeling like a billion bucks. I could work out in the morning, then I could go to work and function normally without wanting to shoot myself in the face with a cop’s pistol. Older people told me to treasure those days because it wouldn’t always be like that. I should have listened.
As John Mayer once said, “You don’t know what you got ‘til it’s gone.” And yes, I know that people said that before John Mayer said it, but I don’t care. Anyone who records “Slow Dancing In A Burning Room” is automatically allowed to claim any famous quote as his own. I miss the good old days when my hangovers didn’t hit me like a train. I mourn those days. Let’s take a moment of silence for them. Let’s also take a moment of silence to remember the song “Stop This Train” by John Mayer, because it’s fantastic.
Those days are long gone. Now, I can’t have half a sip of light beer without having a pounding headache and a queasy stomach for at least five business days. When I want to go out and get drunk on a weekend, I have to make sure I have no plans the next day that could get in the way of laying on the couch all day nursing a bottle of grape Gatorade and questioning the existence of God.
Don’t make my mistakes. If your hangovers still aren’t that bad, treasure these days. This is the golden age. It’s all downhill from here. Be thankful for his gift, because life is going to snatch it from you any minute now. Sure, things are gravy at the moment — you can get hammered and still take a walk and hit the gym in the morning. But one day — maybe tomorrow, maybe five years from now — your hangovers are going to be the worst days of your life. You won’t be able to get drunk without acknowledging, “This better be a fun night, because tomorrow I’ll want to jump off the nearest tall building into a pool of laser sharks just to finally stop the headache.”
It’s a rough life, and it’s been a hell of a difficult transition. But c’est la vie (that’s French for “fuck hangovers”)..