I’m Hungover

You know what’s fun? Bar-hopping and flirting with all the tall manly bouncers. You know what’s not fun? The morning after, when it feels like the chestburster from Alien lives inside you, except it’s made of puke.

I would like to kill myself just to not feel like a giant brick with a stomachache, but if I did, I don’t know how you would all survive without my beautiful posts to get you through the day. And being the wonderful girl that I am, I just couldn’t let that happen, so I guess I’ll live to write another day.

But seriously, vodka cranberries and Bahama Mamas, you are vicious and I hate you. (Until next weekend, and then we can kiss and make up.) And as for you stupid lucky non-hungover Readers: THIS.

Sick and Tired of Being Dead

I woke up this morning dead.

Okay, not dead. But not that alive, either. I am sick, sick, sick. I knew it was going to happen. It’s like that moment when your bike skids out of control and for a split second you think, “Oh, shit,” and then it’s all pavement and scars. Except it is nothing like that. I woke up a bunch of times in the night and every time it was like some awful Sickness Mathematician Fairy had flown over my head and multiplied the badness.

Maybe if I had been sleeping under a magical night sky, that wouldn’t have happened. Either way, I feel like someone chopped off my head, puffed it up with helium and childrens’ tears, reattached it, kicked me down the world’s longest flight of stairs, injected lead into my veins, and then threw coconuts at me for an hour. IT’S NOT A GOOD FEELING.

Long story short, I am going to sleep all goddamn day and not feel bad about it.

Getting C-Blocked by Sickness

I am sick.

My family doesn’t believe in doctors, mostly on account of the fact that they cost money and we used to be really poor and now we’re average mid-level poor. And I don’t really believe in doctors either, because two years ago, I had to do a walk-in at a hospital because I was a.) seeping pus from my eyes (SEXY), b.) coughing up blood (not bloody mucus, blood. ALSO SEXY), c.) having like seven nosebleeds a day (WHAT’S SEXIER THAN THAT?), and d.) was basically just really fucking sick. Sounds awful, right? I mean, I never went to med school, but I’m pretty sure those aren’t the symptoms of good health. Long story short, he prescribed me allergy medicine. Soooo. Not really feeling the MDs.

But I’ve had a rattling, gravel in a blender-meets-Fran Drescher cough for over two weeks, not to mention a runny nose and a headache. And still, I’m like, fuck the doctor, whatever, I’ll ride it out. (Preferably with an adorable little pug to keep me company, like Marie/Kirsten here.)

BUT NOW MY SICKNESS IS COCKBLOCKING ME. And that, my friends, is unacceptable.

I’m just gonna do what I do best and overshare: I was trying to give a classy bathroom beej the other day (it was the Guy’s bathroom, not one at, like, TGI Friday’s, so don’t overreact) and I had to keep stopping to come up for air. It was like scuba-diving, but with dick. Seriously, though, nothing makes me feel worse than when the Guy is saying, “Don’t stop,” and I have to be all, “Holla, holla, breath break.” BUZZKILLINGTON.

Then shit got really real when me and the Guy were in the moment (e.g., getting some) and I started coughing so hard we had to stop.

NOnononoNOnoNO. No.

I want THAT, not a box full of tissues. I think I’m a pretty easygoing person, but once you get between me and my getting mine, well, nyet. But, alas, I’m still sick. So I guess I’m going to curl up with my teddy bear and just cross my fingers that I at least dream something hot.

Oh, yeah, and Happy Turkey Day–all you betches better be thankful you’re still healthy enough to fuck.