Sunday, April 30, 2006
Carpe Nocte ~ Veni Vidi Vice
I got a great jump on the day by getting out of bed after 3 p.m. Apparently it was gorgeous out. Whatevs, Chipper Charlie Mornin' Sunshine, you can bite me. Seizing the day is gay. I seize the night.
I went to sleep at 5 am. At 7, I awoke to my trusty alarm, and realized that I had the same goddamned headache I had on my way out to the party last night. Obviously it's something fatal that hasn't been diagnosed yet, so I'm preparing myself mentally for this, and wanted to prepare all of you also. I have a lot of valuables (cat, etc...) so I should most likely get a will going.
Anyway, my friend Sabrina's birthday party was downtown at Good World Bar and Grill. It's tucked away in an area on the edge of Chinatown which is deserted at night and hard to get to. In other words, it's hip and relatively undiscovered, save for the tools who have found it. I bought Sabs a Princess crown with flashing jewels, so we could find her amongst the crowd. The DJ was good, I met some nice people, and the 3 pints of beer I had made me think I had given the headache the shake. But I realized soon enough that this was not the case.
Here's a unique description: It feels as if my head is caught in a vice.
To make matters worse, it was a bright sunny morning, and then I heard all this screaming outside my Lexington Avenue windows. "What the fuck? If someone isn't getting murdered out there, I'm going to murder you myself," I say as I look out to see some sort of Fun Run / Walk-a-Thon dilly-o. And every "Whoo hoo!" and clapping of the three broads at the mile marker on 36th street felt like a dagger to the eye sockets. Add in Doodle cat jumping on and off my bed for a straight 6 more hours, and I think you understand why I didn't force myself up until 3.
I was literally immobolized. Imagine if it killed me because I just could not get out of bed for sustenance? And then Doodle would be all "Meow! Meow! Meow? Meow? What the hell?" and eventually the Super would find us both all dead and bloated in a week or two or more. And then we'd be on the news, and it'd be embarrassing. And pathetic. Perhaps even sad.
It's now almost 8 p.m., and I still have the headache. Pain killers aren't making a dent. I'm looking forward to a night of the Sopranos and Big Love, pizza and ice cream. I might as well live it up with the remaining time I have left; it's not like I'm going to live to see obesity or old age, and who wants to go out like that, anyway?