Last night, for a thrilling change of pace, I decided to drink too much, and I woke up hosting a four-ring circus in my body, which made me want to eat a gun, or at least a two-gallon carton of Taco Bell. I keep wondering when this activity will cease to seem like a sufficient way to spend an evening. I kind of mistakenly believed that once you graduated from college, you would magically only need Advil to treat headaches, symptoms of the common cold, and pain from injuries sustained while working on home improvement projects. Unfortunately for my liver, I still drink Advil down by the cupful more often than I count out the standard dosage and wash it down with a teaspoon of Evian. Even though I know exactly what is going to happen in six hours, the only ways in which I’ve learned to amend my behavior consist of shoveling a gallon of water into my stomach before I go to bed and sometimes, even medicating before I have to wake up to feel an angry family of four road-tripping from one side of my head to the other. I kind of believed that you turned in your alcohol tolerance and your taste for beers named after places and followed by descriptive adjectives for “cold,” with the keys to your senior year dorm room, so imagine my shock to learn that they sell Milwaukee’s Best in grocery stores that are nowhere near college towns.
I know that while I’m sniffing the cigarette smoke out of my hair on my couch, clutching an economy sized bag of chips in a flavor only drunk people eat, which can’t seem to make it into my mouth fast enough, other people my age are spending their Saturdays doing things that don’t involve byproducts of salt, like registering for wedding gifts or vacuuming their rugs. But I also know that God would not have invented Topper’s if He didn’t want us to get drunk and eat them. Maybe someday I will care.
