The alcohol induced morning after nightmare. Drinking. My head hurts and I’m literally stuck on the toilet. Whyyyyy?! My veins are plumped full of wine and I’ve got hypertension up the wazoo yet my wazoo isn’t doing anything spectacular this morning so I get to deal with this a.m. is most, all-consuming. Every time we drink to the point of regret, we swear we will never do it again. And then we do it again. And again.
First of all, I rarely drink. Except for that one stint where I was dating this guy and apparently couldn’t stop drinking. When you start dating someone, you go out, eat nice dinners, drink fancy wines and since he could easily drink a winery out of its reserves… I, on the other hand, am a one glass, two glass, and then I’m on the floor kind of girl. I’m a lightweight. So, bottles upon bottles later. It’s safe to say, he may have been a bad influence on me. That few months were a blur and actually quite unproductive actually. Well, thank goodness, he went all “Houdini,” allowing me time to come to my senses and get back on track. Oh. By the way, “Houdini” is the term I use for guys who basically disappear on you without warning. Basically, the rudest and one of the jerkiest things guys do to girls where we never see it coming and we’re like, uh, what the hell? Basically, it’s what happens when things are moving along “too well” and the guy freaks out and dips. Instead of being a man who yearns for stability, he moreover craves drama and if you’re not some crazy wench offering up a serving of wacky, these types of mentally unstable blokes run for the hills. Oh, and forget to tell you that it’s over. If you have been a victim of the flaky male species and got all bent out of shape over it, brush it off. Trust me girls, you don’t want a jackass like that anyway.
Back to the point. Ladies, drinking makes you gain weight. I don’t care who you are, how much in great shape you claim to be in… let’s keep it real. Those jeans start getting tighter and your skin starts showing signs of some extraterrestrial being trying to escape through your once beautiful legs. Oh, we call this cellulite. Have you ever been at a bar and seen an older chick who’s skin seems to sag? Oh yeah, that barfly has put in some heavy lifting in the moonshine department. So yes, it gets worse if your drinking too much.
Looking in the mirror, at my leg-fat, and I’m livid over the fact that I’ve spent the entire morning on the commode and now I’ve gotta figure out how to find a miracle cure for this too? Yuck. Stupid alcohol leg-fat. Wait. What’s going on with my stomach? Is that belly fat? I’m pinching around my waist and hips, squeezing the squish, that I’ve now noticed as a problem. That wasn’t clearly evident a problem a few months ago. How does one go from hot and smooth to tepid and bumpy in a matter of months? Before you get distraught and start sending me letters telling me “But Rita, you’re still hot, there’s no cellulite.” Shut it. I’m a woman and while yes, I’m still modeling for these men’s magazines; But, if your crackerjack female brain can find cellulite then so can mine.
Damn you headache. Why monkey must you play the bongos so loudly? Ugh. I need a cure. Cheeseburger. It’s the only way to get rid of this and redirect my attention to what I really need to do. I thought I was vegetarian. I’ll coin this day, “Cheeseburger Hanky Panky Day,” so I can stray from my usual veggie-regime. It’s the only way to rid myself of the stampede takeover in my thinking cap. Ugh. Guess I should hit the gym too. Treadmill. I hate you. I know, it needs to be done. Too much playtime with boys and losing focus on what’s vital to my existence. Music. Film. Writing. As I’m driving my sickly self to the local fast food joint for my cure-all, I’m holding my head like it’s split open from a hatchet. It is. Now I’m holding my stomach. Hatchet again.What am I holding exactly? Is putting my hand on my head and stomach actually helping or just reminding me of this excruciating nightmare. Oh hell. I’m a bloody invalid.