Grave New Awakening

It’s funny how the mornings never change. Sure, there are small differences, but as a whole it’s always the same. These painful mornings after were the reason I never used to understand why people drink. Why go through all the trouble? Of course, I used to wonder about this before I started drinking myself.

In a way, this is similar to smoking. One always says, as a child first trying it out, after a few minutes of coughing and spitting, that he or she will never smoke. But, come the right age and the wrong friends, there we all are. Smoking.

So these mornings I never used to understand, they go like this.

And this is the worst case scenario.

Well, no. It could get worse. But anyway.

After opening my eyes, there’s the split second of Who the hell am I and what’s going on? and then my brain reboots. Now I know my name, and after looking around, I know I’m in my bed in my room. The inevitable question follows: How the hell did I get here?

A few times I woke up at a friend’s place, and then that question was preceded by Where the hell am I? and succeeded by Seriously, how did I get here?

It’s always such a mystery, getting home. Walking, taking a bus or a cab, whatever it is, I just never remember going form A to B. B being bed, of course. It’s like my brain is still somehow capable of picking up stuff when I’m not moving, but when I want to go somewhere, all the nervous system resources go into limb coordination, and my memory is fried. Not that I remember everything that went on when I was sitting on my ass, but at least there’s more.

Blackout syndrome, I suppose, is a perfect name. The bits and pieces of the evening always start with a fade-in and end with a fade-out. Everything engulfed in a darkness of having no clue. Hence, blackout. And apparently, this syndrome works something like this: Alcohol impairs the brain’s ability to transform information from short term to long term memory, so everything you do you only remember for maybe seven minutes. Tops.

By repetition, it is possible to get some things through to the long term section. I guess that means that if I remember throwing up, I probably did so a couple of times. But how ‘bout I skip this part.

After not remembering how I got home, more questions arise. My favorite one being Where’s my cell phone? It always turns out to be either still in my pants somewhere in the corner, or on the shelf right next to my head. With weak, trembling hands I take it and check outgoing calls.

God forbid I called someone and don’t remember it. Well, it would be OK with friends but a little awkward with relatives. Hey, grandpa, come on out and partayyy..!

Another fun thing to do is check the photos I might’ve taken. Usually there’s either nothing or just one blurry image of nothing in particular. Sometimes, however, I surprise myself with the level of artistry me and my cell phone managed to produce. Well, to be fair, it’s me, my cell phone, and my intoxication. Together, we do the great shots of hammered friends and tired bus drivers and cops in pursuit.

If I do find a new photo in the gallery menu, I tend to wonder how it got there. More often than not, the pictures tell me nothing. Only once did a slightly out-of-focus shot of two guys fighting help enlighten the previous evening and how the blood got on my shoes. Enough shock value for one morning?

I wish.

The hardest part comes next. Getting out of bed. As I try to sit up, the taste in my mouth hits me hard. The taste, and the dryness. When my feet are finally on solid ground, I swear for the umpteenth time that I’ll never dink again. And I hope everyone else from the party is also having such a great time right now.

The real oh for fuck’s sake moment comes when I find my wallet and it’s once again empty. Always the same story with this. I don’t take too much cash, because I figure the less I take the less I spend, which translates into the less I spend the less I drink and the more I remember afterwards. What usually happens is I either take extra cash just in case or I spend the little I take and then have a date with the ATM. In both cases the results never vary.

Grunting about being broke, I stumble and wobble and limp around the house. Pointlessly moving to shake off the dizziness of still being a little bit drunk. Pointlessly hoping the headache will, pretty please, go away soon.

But really, I don’t drink that much. I might actually drink a lot less than I give myself credit for. It’s just that when I do, I like to do it big time. And writing about it is so much fun, because everyone can relate to it. I myself have read and heard tons of stories and accounts like this, and I must say I always found a piece of me in them. Someone might tell me about how they found a mitten in their pocket and don’t know where it came from, and I’m thinking Yes, I hear ya, brother.

Everywhere, these stories keep coming up because everyone keeps drinking. Young people, old people, business men, doctors, mothers, fathers, sailors, soldiers, hobos, and bums. Even priests and old ladies receiving the blood of Christ. Wine used to be safer to drink than water. It’s not just a socially given, traditional kind of thing, it’s in the very nature of people. And I want to believe that everyone hates the morning after.

After I drain the rest of the poison out of my system and manage to eat something, I start to look forward to meeting the people involved in yesterday’s session again. The conversation we have the following day always tends to consist of the same sentences.

Great time we had yesterday. Yeah, but can you tell me what happened after, say, eleven o’clock? Oh crap, I was going to ask you the same thing. We never remember anything! You bet. But I think we’re missing on a lot of fun this way. Uh huh. There’s always this line and we never fail to cross it. Not just cross it, we fucking jump over it and never look back. Yeah, but remember when you tripped over that chair? No way, so that’s why my foot hurts. Ha, wait till you see my knee…

And on and on until we set the date for the next gentlemen’s meeting.

Oh, the shots and chasers, the music and jokes and musings about years past. Funny how I always can’t wait, completely forgetting what a grave new awakening will follow. Funny how we always all end up in the same situation. I guess one day we’ll do this so many times we’ll remember everything.

You know how the old memory saying goes: Repetition makes perfect!