There are no words to describe the hangover I'm having right now. Well, there are words, but they tend to describe female genitalia and the wrongdoings of goats, so I'm going to avoid them. However, if I should give it a try and describe the immense headache I am currently experiencing, it would be somewhere close to the feeling of having your brain sliced up into a Rubik's cube and then twisted around. And then a dog puked on it. You get the picture. I was stupid enough to drink half a bottle of whitetrash absinthe (the kind with green food dye and absinthe spelled with a z) and then decided to complete all the tasks on my things-I-will-not-remember-tomorrow-and-why-are-there-cookie-crumbs-in-my-bra-list, such as motorboating female acquaintances, frantically dancing to Aqua and deepthroat an entire pie. Whatever happened to the exciting and deliriously jaunty drunken rampages of the 19th century? When two properly dressed Victorian gentlemen could have some fine cognac, smoke a nice cigar and then dress up as poor people and dance along the streets whilst frenchkissing geese (the moshpit of the Victorian era, mind you). These days, its just drinking absurd amounts of hard liqeur, fighting over which Spotify-account to use, climbing through windows with the precision of a Mission Impossible-agent raised just a tad too close to Tjernobyl and exchanging drunken slurs with the main theme being "I have only known you for three minutes and I kind of threw up on you and I suspect that you are actually a traffic stop sign but I THINK YOU ARE MY BEST FRIEND". And instead of waking up in a chic whore house with opium to cure the worst of the hangover, you wake up fully dressed in your shower with eating utensils shattered around you without a clue regarding what you were going to do with said utensils and your liver clenched in fetal position trying to call social services. All types of alcohol have their own very unique impact on me (and I mean unique as in "that kid who still demands to be breastfed at the tender age of 12 is so lovely and unique!"); vodka turns me into a lesbian bulldozer, absinthe into everyone's therapist whether they like it or not (I have been known to chase people around screaming "GET BACK HERE, WE HAVE TO DISCUSS YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH YOUR MOTHER! CLIMBING OUT THE WINDOW TO AVOID ME IS A METAPHOR FOR WANTING TO RETURN TO HER WOMB!!") and wine transforms me into what I perceive as a well spoken, extraordinary ladylike and intelligent woman with clever puns and wits in abundances, but what from what I have gathered is more like a studdering maniac trying to auto-tune Oscar Wilde-quotes and trying to make all the men present agree to meet me in a wrestling competition.
And yet, it was a glorious evening, and I would do it over again a thousand times. Now, you'll have to excuse me; I have to try to remember what the hell I did last night. I bet it was volunteering for the homeless and doing algebra. Sounds about right.