Sunday, July 30, 2006

sore head

If you had a great night, does that mean the sore head was worth it? And is it alright not to be the perfect guest at every function - if you perform at 140% one night, will 60% suffice the next day?

Today, I walk around in a daze. I'm just back from a lovely bar-b-que where lots of interesting types congregated over sausages and beer, yet there I stood under a beautiful tree, cranky because the brownies didn't have chocolate in them.

'Why bother putting together such a pleasing looking cake if you're going to spoil the effect by having it taste icky?' I thought, frowning and squinting around the garden as the conversation sparkled.

Normally I'd love such an afternoon, frankly I'd still be there, listening to people chat about the interesting lives they've lead saving Goats in Guatemala, or whatever. Sure beats my life of sitting at a desk stamping things and trying to make jokes to keep my colleagues from banging their heads off a wall, or listening with an interested face to their dull stories, whilst inwardly shrieking 'enough already'.

Not today. Today, with my throbbing headache, dry throat, stubbed toes and general drowsiness, everything was as you might say, 'pissing me off'.

The german smiling lady cooking the meats. My return smile was more of a grimace. Old fat man holding court beside the Easter-Island esque statue, I snarled at him when he told me not to stand on the wildflower, retorting, 'what was the ground made for if it wasn't for us to trample upon' - very unhippy and unme like.

And it's all due to my stonking hangover. Dancing at three in Voodoo was amazing, the fitting end to an excellent day. The pizza slices were a bonus, and I didn't even mind dancing on my seriously disfigured toe, which I destroyed whilst walking home from the pub on Friday. In fact, I was the one who piled people into taxis, listened to the sad stories, mopped the weary brows and generally had people on the dance floor giving it welly.

But today, a weekend of excess has caught up with me. And I left the bar-b-que this afternoon, in a confusion of guilt and rage. Had I gone home after Carnival, if I hadn't been skulling Stella in Voodoo an hour later, perhaps I would have been a better guest this afternoon.

Yet I can't help but feel that it's not very rock and roll to regulate the level of enjoyment you have of an evening.

Greetings Not So Clever, I will be speaking against the hypocrites this coming friday
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