Wake up. I open my eyes to see my hangover, clear as day, looking down at me. It just smiles and chuckles to itself. I close my eyes and pray for sleep. Fortunately, I am rewarded.
Re-wake up. I decide to masturbate. My logic goes as follows: Alcohol is a blood thinner. Thin, quick-flowing blood makes for great boners. When offered with a great boner, I always decide to take it. That sounds completely homosexual. I did not mean it that way. I’m so fucking hung-over right now though, and I’m not going to put forth the effort to reword that sentence. Moving on. I begin to think about sexy things like boobs and butts and stuff. Just as I suspected, my thin, alcohol-saturated blood inundates my penis region and I become blessed with a handsome and confident boner. Unfortunately, the alcohol immediately poisons my penis and it quickly keels over dead, lying unresponsive upon my leg. I instantly search WebMD for instructions on penile defibrillation, but to no avail.
My butthole has been dialing my number since I got home last night, but I’ve been letting each call go to voicemail until now. I get up from my bed, sit back down, lie back down, fart, nearly shit my pants, get back up and waddle to the bathroom. I call the first poop of the hangover “The Keystone Shit.” This is actually not a reference to the shitty beer that creates massive shits. The real reason I call it the keystone shit is because it holds all the other poop in place. Once the keystone poop falls, the entire doo-doo infrastructure will eventually follow. The keystone is the densest shit and thus requires the most attention and concentration. I sit down and play the song “When the Levee Breaks.” I’m obviously sweating. The keystone feels like a sloth trying to crawl through a PVC pipe. Sloths have very sharp claws. I’m not sure whether or not that completely applies to this reference.
The keystone drops. An impromptu, full-blown colon cleanse follows. What I thought to be a sloth in my ass turns out to be the predator.
I get out the makings for bacon and eggs. I turn on the stove and whisk the eggs. Then I consider that there is even more to the process, so I grab a yogurt out of the fridge and bail. The stove remains on for the rest of the day.
I get stuck in a severe YouTube loop. What started me watching videos of little kids getting hit by exercise balls has now become a relentless search for videos that demonstrate how the fuck waffle fries are made.
I get a call from a friend who wants to do something that involves doing something. I hang up on him. No such proposals will be agreed to today.
I duct-tape an icepack to my head, put on sunglasses, put in earplugs and wait. I’m just sitting here and waiting until the next time I can feel happiness. Happiness doesn’t come.
My penis still hasn’t shown any signs of life. I keep pokin’ at him to try and get some response, but nothing. I’ve also been naked this entire time. That might not have been clear.
I think I’m going to take a shower. Saying “take a shower” sounds a lot more active than what actually goes on. Really, I just sit down in the shower and let the water hit me. I’m not sure if my heart is still beating. If anyone I know were to see this scene, they would probably feel obligated to call my parents and convince them to pull the plug on my life. At this moment, I’m making Terry Shiavo look like Usain Bolt. After 45 minutes of showering, I get out. Hmm, looks like I forgot to wash my hair. Fuck.
I turn the lights on.
I write a thank you letter to my bed for its valiant effort today. I write another one to Canada Dry because its seltzer helped me greatly when I needed it most. I write two “fuck you” letters to God. The first one is a fuck you for his role in creating life. The second one just reinforces the various points made the first time.
I drink half a beer, throw up immediately, finish the beer and start Google searching “How to tie a noose” and “Tallest buildings in Des Moines and their respective suicide success rates.” I then make a list of things that make me feel happy and why they don’t have the same effect anymore.
I opt out of suicide.
Wha…what was that? Was that…Yes! My dick just quivered! In a voice eerily similar to the voice of the alien in Men in Black right before he dies, my dick whispers to me, “I…I’m gonna make it.” And in that single instance, all of the pain in my life fades away as if it were only a mirage.