Tales Of Woe
"Oh, now I do recall, we were just getting to the part where the shock sets in and the stomach acid finds a new way to make you get sick. I hope you didn't expect that you'd get all of the attention."
Some of you may be wondering where the hell I've been. Some of you may not give a fuck. Either way, I come bearing tales of woe. Okay, not exactly. I was too lazy to post all last week, then Jenn and I had our Saturday off with the usual accompanying avalanche of alcohol and fast food. I overdid it slightly and woke up on Sunday morning with a mighty urge to paint the bathroom with projectile vomit.
So I did.
Needless to say, I spent the best part of Sunday in bed, silently lamenting the fact that - since I quit drinking six days out of seven - my tolerance for the hard stuff has plummeted. Six months and twenty pounds ago I could have consumed all the booze I had on Saturday in one hit and then staggered back to the bar for more. But I am smaller now, and less of an alcoholic. I'd do well to remember this.
So I stumbled through Sunday and woke up this morning feeling much better. I got up, did some writing and some reading, and then, to my horror, began to feel sick again. This is now the second consecutive day I've spent a large portion of in bed.
Still, at least I'm not as much of a pussy as I thought. I hardly ever puke from alcohol consumption (those readers who have been in my presence during a JD inspired barfing session are hereby banned from the comments box).
There are posts coming this week. I'm planning on finishing up a monologue on the DIY music scene and why the internet is sucking the world's creativity into its maw of mediocrity. It's called Quality Not Quantity, Or How The Arctic Monkeys Broke My Train Set. I'll also be reviewing Saturday's Child, the latest novel from my link-buddy Mr. Raymond Banks. So if you like your book reviews sprinkled with a hint of awkwardness and a pinch of barely-suppressed jealous rage, check back here tomorrow, or possibly Wednesday. And hey, it's been way too long since this writer threw up anything that wasn't yesterday's whiskey-soaked pizza crusts, so maybe, maybe you'll get a little fiction out of me before the week is through.
Oh, and a little bird told me there were interesting things going over at The Curve Ball Conspiracy. Dunno what, though. That fucker never updates.
Some of you may be wondering where the hell I've been. Some of you may not give a fuck. Either way, I come bearing tales of woe. Okay, not exactly. I was too lazy to post all last week, then Jenn and I had our Saturday off with the usual accompanying avalanche of alcohol and fast food. I overdid it slightly and woke up on Sunday morning with a mighty urge to paint the bathroom with projectile vomit.
So I did.
Needless to say, I spent the best part of Sunday in bed, silently lamenting the fact that - since I quit drinking six days out of seven - my tolerance for the hard stuff has plummeted. Six months and twenty pounds ago I could have consumed all the booze I had on Saturday in one hit and then staggered back to the bar for more. But I am smaller now, and less of an alcoholic. I'd do well to remember this.
So I stumbled through Sunday and woke up this morning feeling much better. I got up, did some writing and some reading, and then, to my horror, began to feel sick again. This is now the second consecutive day I've spent a large portion of in bed.
Still, at least I'm not as much of a pussy as I thought. I hardly ever puke from alcohol consumption (those readers who have been in my presence during a JD inspired barfing session are hereby banned from the comments box).
There are posts coming this week. I'm planning on finishing up a monologue on the DIY music scene and why the internet is sucking the world's creativity into its maw of mediocrity. It's called Quality Not Quantity, Or How The Arctic Monkeys Broke My Train Set. I'll also be reviewing Saturday's Child, the latest novel from my link-buddy Mr. Raymond Banks. So if you like your book reviews sprinkled with a hint of awkwardness and a pinch of barely-suppressed jealous rage, check back here tomorrow, or possibly Wednesday. And hey, it's been way too long since this writer threw up anything that wasn't yesterday's whiskey-soaked pizza crusts, so maybe, maybe you'll get a little fiction out of me before the week is through.
Oh, and a little bird told me there were interesting things going over at The Curve Ball Conspiracy. Dunno what, though. That fucker never updates.
posted by Michael at 4:16 PM
2 Comments:
Pacing is all important. Also a nice sandwich before drinking!
Haha, you are officially becoming a lightweight O'Mahony, like moi. I will relish the day you too puke over a neighbour's car after 2 glasses of wine.....
Where's my Curveball pic you promised,God damn you, Mentee?
And get rid of this grey. It really does make me think of John Major. Or the cheap 'tracing paper' style bog roll we had in primary school.
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