Hungover. My head throbs. My neck aches. Nausea. I stagger under heavy clouds. I want to sleep fitfully until the sun sets, but the caffeine withdrawal bomb ticks.
How did I do this to myself? Again? Obvious: last night I drank most of a bottle of a red wine on the roof of Bobby’s high rise and then flushed the wine with beer, including the particularly toxic Stella. When David met me in the bar at 11pm, I needed to share a social pint with him. When David left at 1am because he works, I stayed because I do not. Solitary bar life can be awkward but another pint or two can lend plausible social context.
Although I knew that third pint would destroy, I had planned for restorative exercise: a twenty-block walk up scenic Tenth Avenue to Bobby’s apartment. So many texts sent during the 3am walk, so many hasty pictures posted. Facebook should enforce a sobriety test to mitigate morning embarrassment
Hangovers are not all bad. My hangover typically localizes in the back of my head right where my throbbing skulls meets my weary neck. I think sober I hold much stress here. Bleary intoxication and subsequent dehydration further exacerbate that stressful spot. Part of the hangover cure forces me to stretch, relax, and finally pay attention to my back and neck.
Sober, I anxiously plan or regrettably mull. Hungover, my world narrows down myopically to the basic needs of the present: water, rest, and food. There is no past. There is no future. There is only survival.
I’m considering sobriety full-time when I return to San Francisco. Hangovers not only are expensive but also interfere with my mission. My time has never been as precious as now. Why waste it wasted? Many of my San Francisco brethren, like Dennis, bravely choose a year of sobriety. Perhaps I should join their ranks.