On the second day of Christmas my true love gave to me, a two-day hangover at age 35. Rock and fuckin’ roll! Why start Monday refreshed and happy when you can begin the week dehydrated, tired, depressed and negative? From Saturday night mind you, not Sunday. Drank nothing Sunday. Not to mention I was in bed and asleep prior to midnight on Saturday. Just a dominant holiday performance, if dominating at being pathetic is something you aspire to. And what sort of raging gala full of scantily clad women and thundering music did I attend, you ask? None other than my neighborhood block (not the whole neighborhood, just my 1 block street, and then only a fraction of that 1 block section of street) holiday progressive dinner. So there was a lot of food, Christmas trees, definitely no scantily clad women, some music but mostly Bing Crosby and Danny Fuckin’ Kaye. I think someone got a bit out-of-hand and put their iPhone on a docking station and played some of their own personal hits, but softly so people could talk about stuff like which preschools in the area offer the best value. RAGER! And that is where you picked up a 48 hour holiday hangover. Gnar brah.
When I ran into a fellow reveler on day 2 of said hangover, he informed the party actually went on until 2-3am, despite me dragging my semi-coherent corpse halfway down the block at around 10:30pm to die in bed. The bullshit of it is he wasn’t even miserable, just chipper as could be barely 24 hours after leaving the soiree. What is the point of being hungover if you aren’t going to be bitter, melancholy, harboring nothing but dread for the future and hating everyone who dares to look at you? And Jesus Tap-Dancing Christ, 2-3am? What the fuck is this, 1999? If I saw 2-3am these days, I’d probably throw stones at it. I had the impression that I was one of, if not the youngest person in attendance. Remember when Allen Iverson double crossed-over Michael Jordan twice on the same play like a cat toying with an injured mouse before he kills it? This was when Jordan was playing those extra seasons for no reason other than to slightly tarnish his legacy. That is me, only I’m not too old, fat, or out of shape. I just suck. So apparently I left right as things were turning into, a rager. Paid the piper and didn’t even listen to the fucking songs. Really cranking up the JOY this holiday season.
Don’t get me wrong–the dinner was fun, but there was no reason to go commando and act like I needed to beat an imaginary 10pm last call. Straight-up amateur hour, asshole move. On the Second Day of Christmas I’ve ruined two days of Christmas. Catch the fever. And by fever I mean freeze your fucking tits off because we already know what we got for the first day of Christmas: