It started off simple enough. What was an attempt to hang out with friends, enjoy the local hot-spots and to partake in local cuisine turned into, essentially, the greatest/worst night off my life.
My buddy is selling some of his guitars. I'm on a particular "buy any guitar I can" kick at the moment, so it only seemed appropriate to check 'em out, as well as hang out with said buddy. I'd be catching up with old pals as well as walking away with a bright and shiny new axe. What could go wrong?
EVERYTHING WENT WRONG.
To say "it went wrong" is kind of harsh. It would be a direct denial of all the fun and excitement of the weekend. It's a big, giant FUCK YOU to my day-cation experience. But with any hangover, you enter a series of phases you must conquer to overcome and rise above this mind-warping, gut churning shit day. Actually, there are multiple days. If you're like me, you can pretty much count on being out of the game for at least seventy-two hours. Sucks to get old, bro.
So, you drank your weight in evil. Good for you. Did you have fun? No, you didn't. Because you are now hungover, and everything before right now is pure trash. Can you handle this? Can you get through these chapters of agony and torment? Yes, you can. YES WE CAN LET'S DO IT.
Pain and suffering, suffering and pain.
No hangover is complete without the inevitable cocktail of the worst physical pain ever. It's an obvious one, so hold on tight. Everyone has their variation of hangover symptoms. Mine consists of body aches, chest pains and a remarkably upset stomach. Never really a headache, as most people claim to get. All suffering is directed into my intestines, where it feels like nothing will go in and nothing will come out. My body turns into a black hole. I'll drink water and barely piss, I'll eat half a Triscuit and feel like I'm about to blow up. I'm at the point where I wish I got a headache. A headache would be relief. Hell, I'd never quit binge drinking if all I got was a little pressure in the dome! Oh, well, too bad, 'cause I already quit drinking. FOREVER.
Regret, denial, depression.
A friend of mine once called his hangover "The Fear." You damn well better believe "The Fear" exists, son. Because soon after your body starts to calm down a bit, your mind decides to introduce you to "The Fear," an overwhelming sense of guilt and shame and disgrace. You feel like every one's watching and judging you, you get the sense that what you did was the catalyst to your imminent demise, you fear fucking everything and you want to crawl into a hole and die. Or puke. Whatever you want, "The Fear" is yours and yours only.
Overzealous promises and bullshit resolutions.
"I'm done drinking. The truth, I swear. Everything I've ever done in the past has been wrong and everything I must do from here on out will be clean, healthy and moral." Of course, this is bologna. Give it two more days and you're back at your favorite spot, ponied up to the bar. I understand the concept of "moderation," but who the hell ever thought that was a good idea while you were drunk? When you're drunk and having fun, for me, there's nothing more important than shoveling in more alcohol. Water tastes like poison, slowing down even a teensy bit is a Party Sin. The only ending to this story is lying face down in the street.
You're back to normal. Everything might seem a little off, but essentially, you're back to your normal self. Things are good. Just don't find yourself back at Phase 1. Give it a week, at least. Okay? Okay.
Of course, I had a blast. I didn't do a single damn thing I wanted to, but at least I got a solid glimpse at the friendly bars that litter Prescott, AZ. We hit up a few of the "classic" spots -- bars that were in the movie "Tombstone," bars that Wyatt Earp and the gang hung out, bars that Doc Holiday got a hand job under the poker table. Real historical stuff!
But then it went south. Gone were the monuments and history and reliving the days of yore, welcomed were the dives and dumps and watering holes you'd expect to get stabbed in the bathroom. Turns out, everyone in Prescott is dumb nice. Like a super "everybody knows your name" kinda vibe permeated the town. I met everyone from hometown bands to the guy who owned the best burrito shop in Prescott Valley, to the old guy who beat me at pool to the happy bar flies at the Eagles Lodge. It was nuts, and outstandingly refreshing. My body is now a wasteland, but yeah, totally refreshing.
This is how I feel:
There should be something more potent and effective to what you see, but nah. I drew my head, I drew a bottle, the end.
And overall, I had a point to this. It was leading into guitars, and what I play, and what I think about guitar maintenance (I don't think about it at all) finally pulling back the curtain on my rig and personal set-up. It sounds like a good post, even if it's just to relay the message that I just don't care that much, and have been playing the same thing for fifteen years.
But we'll save that for next time. When I'm not feeling so negative. When I'm not dying.
When "The Fear" is gone.