Hung Over

You know you’re getting to be that age when even a few bottles of beer can make your head feel like a sonofabitch early the following morning. A friend and I clinked a few bottles last night to celebrate his emancipation from a burger company and impending slavery to an oil company. Hmm, sounds wickedly like jumping off the frying pan and into the fire.

Anyway we started the night in a open bar somewhere in Ortigas but we had to leave after one drink. I still can’t understand it why some bars would intentionally drive out customers by making their music too loud. I get the psychology of muzak and all that crap but usually that’s done to resto customers so they would hurry up with their chitchat and leave or with shoppers so they’d briskly make a purchase. But in a bar where you expect to have some solid conversation fueled by alcohol? That’s one sure way of lifting butts off them chairs!

We ended up having drinks until the wee hours of the morning at the Cubao expo (of the Mogwai fame), that haven of long hairs, tattoos, and bandanas dangerously placed to barely cover the eyes. I guess the bandana makes you all latino and tough, but hey, to each his own. Oh yeah, it’s a place where ridiculously good looking guys (ahem) hang out as well. Some folks go there for the music (awesome bands) and some for the conversation (no frigging blaring Pussy Cat Dolls getting in the way of your talk).

And now, hours after the heady conversation is the sensation of my head turning into a pimple with some crazed-lunatic dermatologist trying to burst it with a pricker. I’ve already ingested a superstrong FlanaxForte but the hangover is still there hanging on like a monkey at the back of my nape.

Gah, I need fluids, and a greasy breakfast, and another promise to high heavens that I would never, ever, really ever drink again.