Very much just another blog

My va va voom is fu fu fucked

with 4 comments

Oh holy mother of arsing shit. This is not a hangover; this is a near death experience. This is a gun to my temple; this is a bungee jump gone wrong.

There is booze coming out of my face. I can taste it. And smell it. And everything. It.

I have no recollection whatsoever of how I got home last night. Oh. Wait. Yes. The taxi was suddenly outside my house. How did he know where I lived? HOW DID HE KNOW? Oh nevermind. He knew, which is so very much more than I could manage.

Friends, there is no real reason to blog about this; I am a broken spirit with neither the wit nor the intellect to make it relevant to, well, anything. I just wanted you to know that I have truly pushed the boundaries of booze. With a diminutive frame a thimble would have done the trick but I had several billion times more than a thimble. When I woke this morning it was no surprise that, on trying to upright myself, my legs simply gave way beneath me and I landed face down in a pile of last night’s clothes. Not all of last night’s clothes, of course; the rest were laid out between the door and my bed, as is traditional.

I managed the entire commute without hurling and without asking anyone for a hug. And I had plenty more space than usual because, despite a very long shower and brushing my teeth twice (*very* slowly), I fucking stink. Even I think so. I can smell booze, like inverted, dripping lazily from my pores and thudding behind my face. It’s the lingering aroma of something that used to live but died in the night, just between my eyes.

Anyway. I’m here now, rocking gently over the letters of my keypad with my face. It is through cerebral transference and will power alone that this post is being constructed. Spell words, I will the laptop… spell… some… words…

Actually, you know what: I don’t think this is a near death experience at all. I think it may actually BE death. No tunnel, no light, I just hopped straight in a handcart to hell. Hell sucks untold amounts of arse. I need some filthy food but I’m afraid that if I get up my legs will fail me again, here, in the office. I need someone to make me tea. I need… oh. Russ the Designer just made me tea and called me poppet. I think Russ is the best invention of human kind ever. I might ask for a hug.


Written by elikafm

January 21, 2010 at 11:22 am

Posted in Uncategorized

4 Responses

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  1. Apart from that all well?

    Paul H. Colman

    January 21, 2010 at 11:37 am

  2. Now that’s a description of a hangover. Beats even Hemingway.

    Susan Pinna

    January 21, 2010 at 11:56 am

  3. Even your hangovers are poetic.
    Mine are much more, err, gutteral.


    January 21, 2010 at 6:38 pm

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