Consequences are bollocks. They really are. From small things such as drinking cans and then being hungover, to bigger, more painful occurrences, like punching someone in the face and then the realization that said offender is probably going to hit you back. In the heat of the moment, one does not ponder these things. There is no yesterday, and no future, only the single burning emotion and adrenaline of the moment.
I really used that opening paragraph to draw you in, like a sweaty paedophile shuffling around the community centre on a Wednesday at half three, with a bag of Haribo held in one hand and enough chloroform to put down a bear soaked into a jay cloth, luring little Timmy back into a red Ford Focus. In this case, the red Ford Focus is my writing. Rather than diddle your bumhole, I'd just like people to read the words. I don't really want to talk about proper consequences for serious things. I mainly want to talk about hangovers.
A regular thing that both my body and mind have adapted to is the consumption of huge quantities of cheap alcohol. Especially in the past months where I can no longer afford lavish drinks like 10 euro buckfast. Aldi has been both the creator and destroyer of worlds and dreams. Wine and cider for criminally cheap prices, it's almost impossible not to spend all of your pennies there. A bottle of Baron St. Jean and a two litre bottle of something that resembles Seven Up for under a fiver. I swan back home after the uneventful trip from my house to the golden city of wine. I arrive home and guzzle down my white wine spritzer, like a real man! The alcohol pisswater I've bought mixes quite well with the soft drink pisswater. I always thought by mixing two bad things, you'd never really get a good result, but once again expectations, I've proved you wrong. Sure, it tastes like it was brewed by a rather cheerful homeless man in his binbag brewery, but it does the job. Eyes closed, down the hatch (Gay jokes welcome) and well on the way. Like a Roman patrician I stumble around my humble abode, taking nibbles of all food morsels in sight and slug down more pisswater. My stomach shouts and almost begs me to stop, but when have I ever listened to my bodies warnings.
I plonk myself back down on the uncomfortable wicker couch, sweaty from dancing to the greatest pop hits of the nineties, my throat somewhat scratchy from screaming along to Cyndi Lauper songs. Girls do indeed just want to have fun. By this stage, post-pop drunkocaust is what I refer to it as generally (That's a lie. That is the first time I ever have or will use that expression.), has left me tired and ready for bed. I turn off my laptop and stumble up to bed, failing to be quiet at every step, twist, turn and creaky floorboard. At this stage of the night, getting to bed without a new shitty haircut or a badly done tattoo, I'm counting myself lucky. In some sort of drunken flur of genius, I decide I can in fact read a lot more than while sober. Sixty pages read and its off to sleep.
I wake up disgustingly early, because life is terrible. The half eaten bowl of chilli con carny sits beside my bed. I don't remember bringing that up, or eating it. The sixty pages of the book I read are completely forgotten. The hammer of the God is landing heavy blows upon my cranium, keeping me stooped and unhappy at all times. Paranoia and angst hasn't set in, I feel that ribena and coffee will lead me through this bleak valley of alcohol induced sickness. After the morsels of food that I feel I need are forced down my throat, the ass heavens open and rain down liquid shit into the poor toilet. Relief and pain at the same time is truly a wonderful feeling. For the remainder of the day I feel somewhat hollow and out of touch with the world. Is this reality? Is it real life?! I fucking hope not. Are these horrible side effects and consequences worth it for one night of drunken pop-madness bliss? Yes. Yes they are.
The days I don't drink, when I go to bed, I hope that I'll wake up feeling fresh and have a stretch. As I stretch, clouds of beautiful butterflies will fly in through my window and form in a smiley face pattern on the wall. Heavenly, fresh ground coffee magically appears beside me and I feel I have a renewed vigour for creativity and life. Alas, no. I wake up really late, feeling sluggish and overtired. I waste my whole day looking at funny images on the internet. I feel shit either way, no matter what state I'm in when I go to sleep.
Cans till death.
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