Sunday, April 10, 2011

Hungover in Suburbia

Good afternoon dear reader(s)!

Last night I drank.  And then I drank some more.  And then a bit more.  This was after drinking at brunch in the morning.  Then, after all the drinking, I went to a bar, sung karaoke, & drank some more.  Then, after all that, I took a cab home because I could no longer walk, drank more (Gatorade this time).  And then the fun began.  

I decided it might be a good idea to vomit.  Sometimes you just know you drank too much & need to take a little off the top.  So I go to the largest room in my apartment (the bathroom), & I wait.  I am not the finger-down-the-throat guy.  The cool of the bathroom floor, coupled with my dizziness, made for a very inviting place to wait for the alcohol to decide to finally get with the program.  If it would just get the message that I was fine with the path I knew it was wanting to take, I was sure I would feel quite a bit better.  

3 hours later, I wake up, lift myself to my knees, & come to the sudden realization that some of the alcohol was now ready for its journey.  As I began the bittersweet process of separating with my former friend, I started to believe that letting go of my former partner in fun would be the way I would be able to function the next day.  I congratulate myself on the execution of a great plan as I brush my teeth & make my way to bed in order to pass out.  

Around 7:30 my cat wakes me up in the traditional manner of clawing at my feet & I sit up with the realization that my plan was flawed.  No headache, but my stomach is not a happy camper, and there is nothing in it to get rid of.  I am hungover, & to top it off, I have to be in Spanish Springs (my least favorite area of my least favorite area) to help out my dad.  

So I turn to the Rockstar.  Rockstars have always ended my hangovers in the past, so I am pretty confident that I will be okay.  I have a bagel because bread doesn't really sit funny.  I drink some more Gatorade, and I head out to the suburbs of death.  It is not more than 2 minutes on the road before I find myself stuck behind the idiotic soccer moms by themselves in huge SUVs in the left lane of North McCarran driving to the Pyramid intersection that may be the worst intersection in the world.  Let's all go 10 under the speed limit, because you need to be in this lane, & we know it, because if you try to get around we will NOT let you over.  Why?  Because our kids are at home and we as the good little wifey's are bitter that hubby only shows us love in the form of cash.  

So I make it to my destination after 20 or so minutes of yelling, screaming, flipping people off, and being glad I do not carry a weapon in my car this particular day.  I feel like garbage, but here in the house, I have the food network, a couch, and doors that close off the world of robotic clone people outside.  Could be so much worse.  I am okay for now, but I am not looking forward to...

Lunch time.  There is no food in the house.  I know I must make my way to strip mall hell (there is nowhere else to get food out here), battle the clones, and get some food.  Saint Hannah remains behind so that I may leave in order to get something.  We decide on Togo's, which is pretty good for a chain and fairly light so as not to break the uneasy peace I have successfully negotiated with my stomach.  I catch a nice break in traffic on Pyramid, get to the Los Altos turn with a green light, park, and it is surprisingly very easy.  Order the sandwiches, pay, leave.  So far so good.  I am most happily surprised.  When I go to leave the shopping center, I pass by Michael's and Best Buy.  I dodge some idiots coming out of one box store, who are stopping all the way in the exact center of the driving area of the lot, so they can say some words to someone in front of the store.  Don't mind me, I could just kill you by pressing down on the wrong pedal.  But no worries.  Just stand there.  So after muttering some choice words (you can choose what words you think I used, hence the term "choice words"), I continued my 5 mph trip out of the lot.  As I passed just before Best Buy, I saw a huge wad of spit flying from somebody's mouth to the sidewalk.  "Classy," I thought.  Then I saw the spittor.  Him and his girlfriend, all in black.  He had a chain wallet hanging out.  His leather jacket had studs.  Her jacket had some band name on the back.  They were SO very punk rock.  I was impressed by their obvious distain for the establishment as I watched them walk into the Best Buy, in the stripmall, in suburbia, in the Reno-Sparks area.  Continue your anti-conformist ways guys!  I hope you enjoy your edgy 30 Seconds To Mars album.  

Now don't get me wrong.  I go to chain stores sometimes.  I drive a smaller SUV.  I am by no means as separated from the major corporations I despise as I wish I was.  But, and here is what irks me:  I don't claim to be.  And even if I was, I wouldn't spit a digusting pile of snot onto a public sidewalk.  

So upon leaving the shopping center, there is a yield onto Pyramid.  The speed limit at this stretch is 55.  There is a lovely break thanks to the light at Disc being red on Pyramid, & I am optimistic I will hit it.  There is a car in front of me, but you would have to be the world's biggest moron not to be able to get to speed and allow enough time for 10 more vehicles behind you to make that gap.  Enter the world's biggest moron...he enterred the road at 5.  50 under.  I wasn't riding his bumper, so he wasn't just doing it to mess with me and the cars behind me, he was just that stupid.  I was thinking car trouble, until I saw the cell phone.  

I miss the gap, but the traffic cluster was short, and hit another one within a minute or so.  Good thing for the family of that driver, because I would hate for them to have to deal with his untimely death at the hands of a crazed motorist seeking vengeance for his idiotic driving.  I actually passed him, within a couple cross streets.  He had reached 35.  I was proud of his progress.  

So I am back at the house, watching Cupcake Wars, writing about my experience, and renegotiating the terms of the cease-fire with my stomach.  The head has decided to enter the fray, and apparently feels entitled to a seat at the table.  We are considering the division of Berlin.

So until next time dear reader(s), remember that a mind is a terrbile thing to soak in alcohol, as is your stomach, as is your liver, or whatever is left of it.  

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