Requiem for a Heavyweight

I've always felt that, for anyone over the age of twenty, bragging about alcohol consumption is almost as stupid as being over thirty and still wearing a baseball cap backwards, being over forty and regularly playing video games, etc., etc.

That said, please indulge me.

I never used to get hangovers. It didn't matter how much I used to drink (and I sometimes drank a lot ; high five, dude!); I would invariably wake up the morning after a night on the piss , as my colonial brethren so adequately say, clear-headed and with the sweet glow of the previous evening's chicanery lingering, like a dear friend, in my head.

But, Oh! how the mighty have fallen. Truthfully, as far as drinking goes I'm more of a middleweight than a heavyweight (which makes this post's title somewhat of a misnomer; ce la vie): I know guys, my own brother foremost, who can polish off a 26-ounce bottle of 80 proof liquor and consider it a tame night, others who can drink a whole case of beer in half the time it takes the sun to set and rise again; let me assure you, friends and neighbors, I am not in their class. I can, however, hold my own.

Or at least I used to be able to. Maybe it's marriage; I swear, the last instance in which I managed to drink all night and successfully stave off a hangover the following day was my wedding, almost four years ago.

Ever since, I have paid dearly for my liberal libations. And it has grown progressively worse: I now suffer from hangovers which last an entire day, their intensity actually increasing as the day goes on.

Sunday was the absolute nadir. After a night of prodigious drinking* with Idealjetsam (who, incidentally, ghostwrites half of my articles), I awoke shortly before 11. I was in a pretty good mood, despite a killer headache (reason being I WAS STILL DRUNK). I got up, ate a sandwich, a triangle kimbap, and some ice cream (strawberry cheesecake, if it matters), and washed it down with a litre of water and 2 extra strength Tylenols. I watched TV for a few hours. When I finally got up to use the bathroom and wash my face, I could barely recognize myself in the mirror; I looked like a zombie. I felt like one, too. I was an invalid, my disease courtesy of Dionysius.

I fell asleep around 1:30 and awoke two hours later. As though it were Groundhog Day, I again told myself -- a little too smugly, this time -- that I felt pretty good. I thought the worst was over. I even foolishly considered heading out to play basketball.

Didn't happen. As for how the rest of the day unfolded, I have not the heart to tell you. For me the grief is still too near. Suffice it to say, that evening I made an ardent vow that I would never again indulge in spirits so recklessly.

Yeah, right. Vince Carter has a better chance being named MVP.

I suppose this is all just a half-assed way of admitting that I'm beginning to feel old. I know I don't look it, but I'm beginning to feel it in my heart. I feel thin...sort of stretched, like butter scraped over too much bread. And I don't know how much longer I can hope to futilely clutch to my waning youth.






*For the record:

- 1/2 kettle of ohshipsaeju (오십세주)
- 1 bottle XXXX beer
- A triple Jack Daniel's on ice
- 1 Heineken
- 3 Miller Genuine Drafts
- 2 shots of tequila
- An indeterminate amount of soju (that's where things get foggy)

(I will now take leave to enjoy the comedic genius of Dane Cook and jerk off to Maxim. And vice-versa.)

Frat Boy*_*