[Morning, guys! One of my favorite people and local writers/wailers, Ben, agreed to slum it over on my blog, and I'm so glad he did! He has brought the intellectual discussion up many...stuff...today. It's that he doesn't even mention farting. Impressive, right? Check it! But don't wreck it, okay?]
When hungover, there is a struggle within me. Do I deny the hangover and power through, or embrace this hangover as a precious gift from the booze gods? Every decision is filtered through this existential prism. Do I walk to the store and the farmer’s market to buy fresh veggies and tofu for a healthy breakfast scramble, or do I get deep-fried everything at Gravy? Do I walk in the park and maybe clean my room, or do I couch the fuck up and watch nature shows and cable news? (Weekend cable news is my new heroin. So bad, so completely and utterly evil. Yet I can’t say no.)
The true beauty of a hangover, to me, is that these decisions are not made with any conscious faculty. I can think about them, surely. But when it comes down to manifesting physical movement, there is no room for reason. One brushes elbows, when hung over, with one's true animal nature.
I need a pastry. I feel this need intimately. Much the same as our evolutionary ancestors on the great savanna once felt "I need a gemsbok." A deep and primal need that cannot be denied.
I hunt.
[Thank you! I like this post. Wise. And thanks for introducing me to the word "gemsbok." They are cute! I hope you feel better soon! I was planning on going to the mall but now I'm awfully tempted to watch tv. Other drunks: you too can be wise and famous by sharing your hangovers at hungoverportlandatgmaildotcom. Huggles. ~Joneser.]
