Awake

You know them there rock 'n' roll deities with the screaming legions of lady fans? The screaming legions of lady fans who done want nothing more than to violently hump the ever-loving shit out of their barely breathing, coked out torsos? The coked out torsos that are now little more than a shrine to years of debauched lady legion humping? Yeah? Well then you know that there exists a cliché of song dedication such as:

"This one goes out to all the ladies out there."

Well, I know my audience. I'm a bar working, festival whoring, occasional blog writer with an ever-developing penchant for self destruction. I dress like a drummer with delusions of becoming the front man. My screaming legion of lady fans is actually a silent group of people sitting at desks, with time to kill and low standards of entertainment that may be the death of them. And the only humps we may eventually share are our matching hunchbacks, developed from poor typing posture.

This one goes out to all the bored people out there, who really should know better.

So you've woken up in last night's shreds. You're not immediately certain of what state you can class yourself as being in. You've opened your eyes ever so slowly, as if to delay the potential horror from registering. There are a few ways this could go. It's time for some self-diagnosis.

The lucky few, a number of which I can usually count myself as being, emerge unscathed, whether through careful moderation of your indulgence, or mindless good fortune. You were pleasantly behaved throughout the preceding night's meandering course and have your dignity to show for it. You will be happily lording it over your fallen comrades for some time to come. Open those eyes wide, cartwheel out of bed and treat yourself to as bright and productive a day as you see fit.

You are fine.

Alternatively, you awake with confusion. You're not entirely sure how you ended up back in your own bed. Hell, you're not entirely sure that this is your bed. It's not? Hearty, post-coital self-congratulation time. It is your bed? You're sure you're alone? Oh well, at least you still have every necessary limb attached. Check to be sure. Yep, they're all there, and none of these loyal body parts seem to hate you. In fact, you know in that moment that, even though you may not remember the minutiae of last night, this is going to be one of the best days you have ever had.

You're still drunk, my friend. You're not out of the woods yet, In fact, those woods are going to come looking for you later.

Then there is that other circle of hell. Your eyes don't respond to your commands. Lying there you realise too late, that maybe, just maybe, they're trying to protect you from what awaits. You have no idea what you got up to last night. Your hands are coloured and deformed by the many tiny cuts of origins unknown. Judging by their number, size and cluster you either clawed your way out of a shallow grave, provoked a midget into a fistfight (....again) or your bottle opening skills are truly sub-par. This is of particular concern if you've just recently been employed to work in a bar (any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental). That cigarette burn on your stomach is a new addition, and you're not sure how well it matches the aesthetic you were aiming for. With every fresh recollection of the night before your body contorts in horrified spasm. Yes, you did do all those things. The story you accidentally managed to spin about killing a fictional dog? Yep. And you know that that was actually the high point of proceedings. You know it because there's that gnawing, clawing, prowling and vicious sensation bubbling up in your grey matter. This may be a hangover. You can't yet be certain. You're unsure of how to proceed. This is Schrödinger's Hangover. Do not open that box.

No.

Sudden.

Movements.

You've had it with this purgatory; you need to know! You're still too frightened to endanger your desired future of having a functioning head atop your shoulders to do anything in a fashion other than can be described as "gingerly". This may not be a hangover. This could be general malaise brought about by a lack of sleep. For the avoidance of all doubt, there is one inescapable litmus test:

Know where to turn in Edinburgh (I cannot stress how fictional this scenario could be) and you can find a bagpipe player....a bagpiper....a bagpipist....a dude with a big sack of air and tubes that legend deems an instrument. It will remove any uncertainty. If only you could summon up the courage to crawl from your bed/safety nest to seek out this resolution. This will determine whether you spend your day seeking out ducks to feed or seeking out ducks to shout at for illogical reasons while sobbing uncontrollably.

Then you hear them. They're outside your window. No, not a brace of mallards finally giving you your longed for justification to take them to task for refusing to wear the paper hats you made them, but people. They're arguing with such ferocity as to render anything other than inevitable murder as a preposterous outcome. Either that or they're old friends exchanging regular pleasantries. They're Scottish; differences are frequently incomprehensible to the naked ear....and the very suggestion of clothed ears would be enough to make you giggle.

AND RIGHT NOW GIGGLING WILL MOST LIKELY ATTRACT THE IRE/FRIENDSHIP OF THE PEOPLE OUTSIDE THE WINDOW WHICH WILL CAUSE THEM TO MURDER-HUG YOU IN YOUR SAFETY NEST!

Congratulations, you are in that grey little place between living and death that we call "a hangover". You will yearn for the latter, and convince yourself you had imagined the former. Nobody has ever suffered before as you are suffering now. You will never touch a drop of alcohol again so long as you walk this earth.

You're drinking as you type this.