Emerging from an all-too-frequent, alcoholic-induced, comatic trance, inflicted with the sensation that the scull is clasped in a vice.
The burgeoning beer belly, incendiary with a cocktail of beer and spirits bubbles with corrosive bile.
Rationality becomes stunted and fear permeates every pore, indicative of the previous night’s debauchery.
The atmosphere in the room is toxic and the air is infused with the omnipotent fetter of booze.
The normally welcome sunlight becomes an irritating repellant and the presence of a pint glass, usually reserved for drinking from, has become a urine receptacle.
Garments festoon the bedroom and Calvin Klein underpants have become a colostomy bag.
The first signs of life come in an uncoordinated stagger towards the bathroom, to kneel at the altar of Armitage Shanks and exorcise the demon’s excess.
This ritual, while releasing some of the tangible remnants of the session, fails to alleviate a much darker sinister force, for the psychological trauma eclipses the physical.
The Dionysian nature of the multiple-day binge is the cause of this state.
Alcohol is consumed recklessly, guzzled and gulped with piscine-like ability, inspired by a pseudo-tradition of banter and revelry, and consoled by tales of a drunk and irreverent past.
Accolades are awarded to those who can consume without swaying, erring, or slurring.
A totem of pint glasses is erected in triumph, only to tumble and smash like the dreams of the drinkers.
All this is performed with minimal sustenance, with the exception of the staple of bacon fries or dry roasted peanuts.
The sad reality behind this is that alcohol has become a crutch to buttress the gargler socially and equip them with false confidence and the ability to jettison all semblance of self-consciousness.
Just like armor safeguarding against the sharpened lance of truth, the byproducts of this gregarious enabling elixir are far-from-coherent conversations.
Moronic inanities and verbal puzzles are produced; base emotions and animal instincts begin to dictate behavior, as the mind becomes marinated further.
A feral-like like demeanor is assumed. Attempts to communicate with the opposite sex usually results in rejection and the ratio of pints drank to conversation held is dismal.
Yields are negligent, as the drunken wretch must stumble homeward, with thoughts of reality and duty temporarily suspended.
The severe thud and crash to reality is cataclysmic.
Thoughts become refocused and refracted when viewed through the skewed prism of the hungover mind.
Positive ideas are constipated in the bowels of the brain.
Trivial dilemmas are exacerbated and magnified, and the simplest of tasks become Herculean
The sluice gates open and the subject drowns in a wave of anguish and self-loathing. An imaginary showreel of life is conjured; the cellulite catastrophe that unfolds as a tale of unfulfilled potential and wasted opportunities.
Staring into the dark void of the future, failure is prophesized at every turn.
Smooth shapes become sharp objects with the ability to pierce eyeballs and puncture the most buoyant souls.
Sweat begins to flow as an intense heat is produced, bizarrely, by wallowing amidst a boreal chill.
The head morphs into a throbbing state, and the skin becomes invaded with blotches and capillaries akin to Nile tributaries.
The ringing mobile phone resounds and resembles a harpy’s shrill.
Thoughts of any form of human interaction provoke anxiety apprehension and overproduction of gastric acids
The mental flagellation knows no bounds
And nebulous darkness descends and there is no refuge in the shadows
Any attempts to bind to the shards of the fragmented soul are futile
For this is The Fear