Throbbing headache…

Dehydration…

Nausea…

Depression…

Pangs of paranoia, as you begin to collect the broken pieces of the night before…

 

I'm too old for this s***!

 

Remind you of anything? These are just some of the long list of the insufferable symptoms of a hangover. Once upon a time, I was able to PARTY 4 nights in a row, without so much as a mild headache. As I enter my mid-late twenties, it’s a completely different story. One night of ‘letting my hair down’ costs me, at least 2.5 days of recovery.

Whilst I am in the party spirit, I think it’s a great idea to consume as much alcohol as I physically can. I also think it’s a great idea to stay out until the early hours of the morning. The reality is, I just can’t handle it anymore!

Come morning time, as my alarm screams into my ear and my liver screams even louder, I say to myself “I’m just too old for this shit!”. Mortified, as broken memories of running the streets wearing nothing but a traffic cone, fill my head. I start to question why I had thought it was such a great idea. Gone have the days, when I could party all night long, get up in the morning feeling as fresh as a daisy, and 12 hours later, do it all over again. These days, I leave it at least 6 months, before I venture out again. Once the embarrassment of clearing the dance floor to do the ‘caterpillar’ has passed, I might consider going out for ‘civilized’ drinks.

I'm too old for this s***

Only the term  ‘civilized drinks’ can be a little misleading, when you end up at the entrance of a dodgy nightclub, at 3.00 in the morning. I often have these conversations in my head, it’s as though I have the Devil and an Angel perched on my shoulders. The Angel can see that this is a BAD idea, as she kindly reminds me to “Think of the hangover”.  Along comes the Devil, pushing the Angel right off my shoulder, and tells me to “Live a little”.  Suddenly, I find myself staggering drunkenly over to the dance floor, ready to throw some shapes.

In my head, I am dancing like Beyonce. In reality, I have less rhythm than Bambi-on-ice. Ice-skating deer aside, the dance-floor can be a truly terrifying place. If you’re not cutting your feet on broken bottles, you’re pushed, shoved and trodden on. Many a time, I have found myself between the bosom of some overweight, sweaty party-goer, as I get bounced around like a pinball in a pinball machine. That “I’m going to beat the shit out of you if you don’t remove yourself from body”  expression, crosses their face, as I quickly un-stick myself and make a rapid escape.

It’s a relief when you finally get out of the ‘mosh’ pit, and can breathe once again. “Oh wait, what’s this sticky stuff on my shoes”, I ponder, as the smell of vomit fills the air. Another, pair of shoes ruined! It’s funny how we go out looking our very best, yet to return in the worse state possible. As I look in the mirror, I can’t help but wonder, where it all went wrong; hair of a bush, a mascara explosion, and my clothes resembling something of a peasant. But I guess, I don’t look as bad as I feel, having spent the majority of the morning, with my head in a sick bowl.

 

mens toilet

 

“I’m never drinking again!”, I sigh. How many times have we said this to ourselves? Only, to find ourselves in the same predicament just months, weeks, days…down the line. We forget the pain and suffering a hangover can bring, and before we know it, we are dancing on top of that bar once again. The more alcohol we pack into our pain-enduring bodies, the more our legs begin to wobble. Suddenly, we have legs of jelly, and can no longer walk in a straight line. “I wasn’t meant to burst into the Gent’s… I’m honest”, I apologise, as five startled men turn around at the urinal.

superman_clipartImage courtesy of http://www.clipartpanda.com/

 

The thing that scares me the most is the fact that after very few drinks,  I feel truly INVISIBLE. I start to believe I can rock that karaoke, as I screech power ballads of the 80’s, offending the ears of many. In my head, I hear cheering and appraisal…In reality, there is no one left in the room.

Despite being barely 5ft 3, I also take on the persona of a 25 stone, sumo-wrestler, and consequently feel I can take anyone on! This is a recipe for disaster, as I am carried out, kicking and screaming, on the shoulder of 25 stone BOUNCER!

 

taco-296574_1280

 

My sense of invincibility fades, as I find the contents of my handbag is MISSING! Suddenly, I’m on my hands and knee’s trying to find my phone, whilst getting trodden on, by what feels like, a bunch of Cattle. If it isn’t my phone I have lost, it will be my house keys, a night curled up on my doorstep is standard. “But hey, it’s okay” I have £3.00 left in my pocket, and Donna Kabab is calling my name!

Morning arrives, and in a state of self-pity, we say to ourselves…

 
 

I’m too old for this s***!

 

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