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The twelve hours after Happy Hour are the direct opposite of what the name implies.
“How are you feeling?” My L.A girl friend asked me while I as staring at traffic, wondering if I had the energy to thro myself in front of it.
“I am going through waves of: Yes! I could drink again and, No! Alcohol and I are fucking done professionally.”
I was enjoying a happy threesome of Diet Coke, Frappuccino and water to make sure my body didn’t quit me. Caffeine, sugar and H2O. The three essential daily vitamins.
“The next time I decide to drink for fifteen hours straight, can you please remind me that I make really bad decisions in my life?”

I have always found that the best way to get acquainted with a new city is to drink its entire alcohol supply in one sitting. I argue that you don’t really know a place until you have decorated its gutters with regurgitated Jack Daniels. The last time I was in Los Angeles, I managed to exchange the blood in my veins for bourbon and frequently be the last girl standing at any establishment willing to pander to my budding alcoholism. The experience caused me to detox for one month and, for the first time in my entire life, feel like a failure because I wasn’t the Superman of alcohol that my resume suggests.
Previously, I thought that if there was a job that required excessive alcohol consumption and cigarette smoking, I could be a millionaire CEO with a Gulfstream and trophy wife by twenty-seven years old. Dedicating six years of ones life to studying humanities degrees only concludes in a skill of swallowing. In any context. It is necessary to find an occupation to celebrate that.

Of all the jobs in the world, the fact that none of them have involved finding a cure for hungoverness destroys any respect I have had for formal employment.
“I mean, really, what do scientists spend their days doing?” I pondered while ingesting the three different drinks necessary to recover, not even thinking of their logical culmination of coffee.
“Smart people, like scientists, usually assume that people will learn to stop getting hungover in the first place,” my boy friend informed me.
“Well. That isn’t very smart then, is it?”
Being hungover is like giving yourself cancer for twelve hours: a self-inflicted pain that works its way through your entire body trying to kill you.

Some people can function while in Alcohol Limbo Land. Personally, I have trouble forming precise sentences, pack a bag and move into the toilet for a week.
“Why don’t you go for a run to sweat it out?” my boy friend continued over Facebootk Chat and I deleted him immediately as a friend. Any suggestion, aside from decapitation, was unwelcome. The six years of research allows me to conclude, beyond reasonable doubt, that there is no known cure.

The most daunting concept during a hangover, other than breathing, is having to drink again in a few hours time. The fact that my determination to recover involves the source of the problem, really, confirms to me that human beings won the lottery by being at the top of the food chain.
“You could just not drink at the concert…” another friend I will probably never speak to again reasoned. “You don’t need alcohol to have fun.”

Some of my most hilarious stories originate when I am dressed in nothing but a bottle of scotch. I have often theorized that, if I were to die now, my funeral would be advertised as a Facebook event and become Government-sponsored anti-drinking campaign. It is not that I think that alcohol is necessary to have fun. It is just that it always seems to be around when fun is occurring.

After eleven long hours of the worst hangover I have experienced as an adult, I arrived at a house to drink more scotch. The liquid I had ingested all day had done nothing to distil the tumor in my body. By my third round of triple drinks, I had started to doubt why anyone would ever even do a science degree.
“This is the perfect mix,” my boy friend handed me a drink that smelt familiar.
Twelve hours later, I came to. And was, once again, unhappy.