i’m getting too old for this January 15, 2012

the photographic record of my night stops here

I’ve spent the last eight hours on the couch. I’m wrapped in a blanket under the air-conditioning, distributing my attention evenly between bad television, my Tumblr dashboard and a book. I’m not even fully dressed and the only time I’ve moved was to take the pizza delivery menu off the fridge. I’m 99% sure there’s gold eyeshadow on my cheek and when I exhale a toxic cloud of Jagermeister and Fresh Pussy shots visibly manifests like on a cold day except for it’s some kind of toxic colour like acid green. I’m so hung over it’s not even funny.

You know you’ve had a big night when you use the traces of your 5am homecoming littering your apartment to help you figure out what happened between the taxi and the bed. It looks like I discarded one shoe in the living room and one shoe in the bathroom. I brushed my teeth in the shower without taking a shower and apparently read five chapters of Fight Club before falling asleep in a t-shirt with a full face of makeup holding a bottle of water like a teddy bear. I am Joe’s complete lack of surprise.

My iPhone’s messaging inbox helps me to determine the rest of the night. Apparently my taxi driver and I discussed the probability of a 2012 armageddon (he was for it, I was against it; he acquiesced because I claimed to be ‘Biblically Experienced’). I ate a chicken yiros the size of a small Chihuahua and danced, probably alone, to T.A.T.U’s ‘All The Things She Said’. I smoked cigarettes in the toilets like a fifteen-year-old at a Catholic school and spoke terrible French to a bartender who I imagine got pretty sick of ‘je voudrais un fucken shot mate’ rather quickly.

Now my cat is eyeing me warily as though I don’t even smell like me anymore and I’ve eaten so much pepperoni pizza I think I’ll be plagued with regret for the rest of my life. I remember a time when this would happen two to five times a week but now I just can’t figure out how I used to manage. This revelation is simultaneously relieving and embarrassing, but mostly it’s just hurting my head. Marge Simpson is crumping on my television and that’s my cue to leave.