Sunday, February 12, 2006

HANGOVER SUNDAY

...and so that's why today is the ideal Sunday to stay inside all day with a massive hangover. It's been pissing down rain since I arrived home at 5am. Well, I say down. Right now it's actually raining sideways. No shit. One hundred percent horizontal icy acid British rain. On another note, I am incredibly nauseous and dehydrated. I also currently hate the inevitable horniness that hangovers bring. Oh. Too much information? (Cue: Awesome gets on an airplane and flies here immediately.) I've just medicated my migraine with a phenomenal triple dosage of Solpadeine Plus and can now relax in a codeine-induced euporia all afternoon.

Last night I was at a Destroy The Flat party. This sounds more rebellious than it actually was. Basically, three of my friends know they're not reclaiming their deposit when they move at the end of February, so they no longer give a flying fuck about the state of their flat. In our younger days I imagine that everyone could have really made some major contributions to damage the place. Last night, though, as a bunch of late-20something and early-30something North London yuppies sat around a Highbury flat, each of us with our own joint and our own keg of wine, the most we managed to do was burn the carpet with a shisha coal, and then someone broke the toilet seat completely off the bowl (I don't know who, and I don't know how).

Also, I have a question: If I quit socially "smoking" (as in smoking cigarettes while drinking) during the second week of January, does smoking weed or fruit coals from a shisha pipe count? I don't think so. So there. I've not been a social smoker for a month now.

Also, I have another question: After all these years, I am still dumbfounded and occasionally mortified by my alcohol intake ability. I'm so small - where does it all go? I want to know. Really. My siblings are small, too, but the three of us easily outdrink the largest people in the room on any given night. Therefore, the moral of this story is that we have talent.

I quite like getting "older" (yes, I realize that anyone over the age of 27 wants to smack me when I type such a statement). Last night, for example, instead of ringing up Carlos (isn't everyone's dealer named Carlos?) and knowing that we wouldn't fall asleep until sometime on Tuesday afternoon should we ring up Carlos, we talked about Remember when... and about all those youngters who take club drugs and inhale assorted powders. Thankfully, though, none of my British mates have babies to bring to house parties. Yet. Some of my friends in New York do. The last time I was at a big-ass party in Manhattan, I stood at the vanity in the bathroom and watched one man snort lines to my left and another man change his baby's diaper to my right. Approaching 30 is fun - you never know if you're going to inhale cocaine or diaper fumes!

Nearly everyone I know is coupled or wants to be. Of course I miss Awesome in these situations when I'm collapsed in a large lounge with a bunch of couples - perhaps that's why the majority of my friends are single women: I make a fantastic surrogate date. Now we all like to talk about things like traveling instead of always discussing clubbing and promiscuity. Everyone says things like: I've got a uni mate we can stay with in Madrid! Another person: Oh, we can stay with my brother in Gothenburg! A third: I've got keys to my grandfather's empty retirement flat in Faro!

Ask anyone and he/she will confirm that his/her dealer is named Carlos.

Last night before I drank my fourth bottle of wine I got out a pen and pad and started drawing up contracts for those friends to sign who claimed I could stay with one of their family members in foreign cities. I've got a whole packet now.

What? I've never met a dealer who was not named Carlos.

Oh yeah - now I've booked trips to Porto, Montpellier, and Palermo, all in March. Yeehaw.

QUOTE OF THE DAY:
I love drugs, but I hate hangovers, and the hatred of the hangover wins by a landslide every time. - Margaret Cho