Huge Thursdays = Painful Fridays
Out around town, hordes of people are effecting the 4 day week by destroying themselves and their livers on Thursday night.
In our case, it was the early hours of Friday morning. About 4 early hours, from memory.
See, when you enter Friday in a daze, not only can't you do anything productive, the day moves a lot quicker.
It hurts, though.
This morning, I woke up before my alarm. I find it impossible to sleep on a hangover. This makes Friday the one day I'm capable of getting to work on time.
I believe the trigger to waking up was my parched state. My mouth felt as though it had crawled through a desert, as the last traces of moisture dried up.
My brain felt as though it had just gotten off one of those crappy rides at an amusement park - one of the ones that spin you in heaps of directions leaving you really dizzy, short-changed and wondering how anyone with a sense of balance finds them fun.
Every morning personal routines, such as showering, brushing your teeth and using the bathroom (hopefully in that order) are requisite on a hangover. This morning, I had problems brushing my teeth. A major field of research in biology, there are some sensitive spots at the back of the mouth, whereby if you poke them with a toothbrush whilst hungover, your stomach is triggered to slam on its brakes and shift into reverse.
However, getting ready for work is not really the issue. It's getting to work that's a problem.
There's nothing worse then getting to work on a hangover.
The train feels extra rocky. In your mind, there's no way it hasn't already derailed.
I happened to be lucky enough to be standing directly beneath a slightly broken loudspeaker. By 'slightly broken', I mean a loudspeaker that is capable of emitting sound at amplified volumes, but incapable of rendering a sound that is at all consistent with the originating message.
Essentially, the final message communicated, at significant volume into my throbbing skull, was "crackle crackle buzz passengers PLEASE hum snort sniffle durka durka get off the train clunk CRUNCH (buzz)"
Frustrated by his efforts, eventually, mid journey, the announcer communicated the message he intended to. This only served to raise my ire.
"If you're trying to get onto the train and the door's closed, please move down to a carriage where a door is open."
Failing to see any insight in his message, on account of the fact that his audience consisted entirely of people on the train, I concluded that:
1) He had a big Thursday night. Or,
2) He's having a lot of fun with people who did.
I can tell it's Friday today. The city smells like bacon.
So, I arrive at work with all the telltale signs.
My eyes, which normally resemble coins, now resemble coin slots.
My hair's a habitat for native wildlife.
My clothes have the contours of a topographic map.
My 5 o'clock shadow from yesterday has officially hit stubble status.
And everything happens that split second slower.
You know you're hungover when someone random in the lift says to you "Thank God it's Friday" and instead of complaining to yourself about being subjected to inane banter, you tend to agree.
You know you're hungover when you go to get a coffee and the barista laughs at you.
You know you're hungover when you have to eat something that has toasted cheese.
As an aside, I happened to get the coffee and the toasted sandwich from 2 different coffee shops. When I arrived at the 2nd coffee shop with my coffee in hand, I was abused...
"Where did you get that from?"
The coffee cup I was carrying happened to have no unique markings - it was black and it had a ribbed surface.
This prompted the following comment from the girl serving me. "Here's a tip ... ribbed isn't necessarily better."
These questions and comments only come at you when you are in no state to answer them.
You know what they need in the city?
Beds. Available for hire.
Not for illicit activities. Just for that point in the middle of the day when it feels like the building is shaking and you need to lie down.
I had to go to the park for a sleep. It's demeaning. There I am, sleeping next to a homeless guy who smells less like alcohol than I do.
I'm back at work now. As you can see, this Friday is particularly productive.
Well, I'm at 750 words. It's 4pm. My brain's broken. I'm done.
I'm off to the pub. It's the only cure.
In our case, it was the early hours of Friday morning. About 4 early hours, from memory.
See, when you enter Friday in a daze, not only can't you do anything productive, the day moves a lot quicker.
It hurts, though.
This morning, I woke up before my alarm. I find it impossible to sleep on a hangover. This makes Friday the one day I'm capable of getting to work on time.
I believe the trigger to waking up was my parched state. My mouth felt as though it had crawled through a desert, as the last traces of moisture dried up.
My brain felt as though it had just gotten off one of those crappy rides at an amusement park - one of the ones that spin you in heaps of directions leaving you really dizzy, short-changed and wondering how anyone with a sense of balance finds them fun.
Every morning personal routines, such as showering, brushing your teeth and using the bathroom (hopefully in that order) are requisite on a hangover. This morning, I had problems brushing my teeth. A major field of research in biology, there are some sensitive spots at the back of the mouth, whereby if you poke them with a toothbrush whilst hungover, your stomach is triggered to slam on its brakes and shift into reverse.
However, getting ready for work is not really the issue. It's getting to work that's a problem.
There's nothing worse then getting to work on a hangover.
The train feels extra rocky. In your mind, there's no way it hasn't already derailed.
I happened to be lucky enough to be standing directly beneath a slightly broken loudspeaker. By 'slightly broken', I mean a loudspeaker that is capable of emitting sound at amplified volumes, but incapable of rendering a sound that is at all consistent with the originating message.
Essentially, the final message communicated, at significant volume into my throbbing skull, was "crackle crackle buzz passengers PLEASE hum snort sniffle durka durka get off the train clunk CRUNCH (buzz)"
Frustrated by his efforts, eventually, mid journey, the announcer communicated the message he intended to. This only served to raise my ire.
"If you're trying to get onto the train and the door's closed, please move down to a carriage where a door is open."
Failing to see any insight in his message, on account of the fact that his audience consisted entirely of people on the train, I concluded that:
1) He had a big Thursday night. Or,
2) He's having a lot of fun with people who did.
I can tell it's Friday today. The city smells like bacon.
So, I arrive at work with all the telltale signs.
My eyes, which normally resemble coins, now resemble coin slots.
My hair's a habitat for native wildlife.
My clothes have the contours of a topographic map.
My 5 o'clock shadow from yesterday has officially hit stubble status.
And everything happens that split second slower.
You know you're hungover when someone random in the lift says to you "Thank God it's Friday" and instead of complaining to yourself about being subjected to inane banter, you tend to agree.
You know you're hungover when you go to get a coffee and the barista laughs at you.
You know you're hungover when you have to eat something that has toasted cheese.
As an aside, I happened to get the coffee and the toasted sandwich from 2 different coffee shops. When I arrived at the 2nd coffee shop with my coffee in hand, I was abused...
"Where did you get that from?"
The coffee cup I was carrying happened to have no unique markings - it was black and it had a ribbed surface.
This prompted the following comment from the girl serving me. "Here's a tip ... ribbed isn't necessarily better."
These questions and comments only come at you when you are in no state to answer them.
You know what they need in the city?
Beds. Available for hire.
Not for illicit activities. Just for that point in the middle of the day when it feels like the building is shaking and you need to lie down.
I had to go to the park for a sleep. It's demeaning. There I am, sleeping next to a homeless guy who smells less like alcohol than I do.
I'm back at work now. As you can see, this Friday is particularly productive.
Well, I'm at 750 words. It's 4pm. My brain's broken. I'm done.
I'm off to the pub. It's the only cure.
posted by The Groin at 2:21 pm
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