This, I remember thinking as I futilely searched for the courage to retrieve a Gatorade from the fridge, is not good. And it wasn’t. But the worst was yet to come. A new, electric apprehension coursed through me. Some faceless dread wrapped around me in an unremitting grip of terror, and for the first time in my modest drinking career, I felt it.
See, you may be able to handle the physical toll of a hangover. Anyone can, for a time, even a wimp like me. Chug some water, crush a breakfast sandwich, and start day drinking your way back into the galaxy's good graces. So what, your head feels like a balloon full of dirt? Buck up, fucko, and drink this Bloody Mary! Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. Et cetera.
The fear will lock jaws around whatever makes you anxious, and never let go.
Somewhere on the loud, sad boulevard to 30, though, the toll goes up. Sure, there's the whole dirt-balloon thing, plus your stomach is dissolving in its own bile, and you’re
. But you’ve budgeted for those surcharges.