My Friday morning routine starts off something like this:
4:00 a.m.ish search side of bed for a random water bottle to take a drink of water to cure deadly dry mouth from too many beers/saltyfood night before.
6:15 I'm being attacked. This is real. What in the hell is going on? Am I in the Hunger Games? Am I losing? What is that awful noise? Why is it getting louder? ... It's my alarm. Hit snooze.
6:25 alarm goes off. Snooze again.
6:35 get up. Shower. Get ready. Take Harlow for a walk. Start flying through air. Shit, I'm still dreaming actually. Snooze.
6:45 Alarm. Snooze. Last time, for reals. I'll get up in ten minutes. It's just so warm and cozy in my bed.
6:55 a.m. Get up. As now I have left as little time possible for myself to get "ready."
6:56 Feed Harlow. Let Harlow out. Hope Satan neighbor doesn't notice him peeing in her rocks. Screw her if she does. Pick up Har's brown sand castle with plastic bag. Hope to God there isn't a hole in the bag. Think about putting bag on neighbor's doorstep...
7:00 Proceed to clean up and get myself ready for the day as quickly as possible before Chris says "15 minutes." Which means we'll be leaving in 10. Or in 30 minutes. There's really no telling with him.
7:28 The entire commute to work we groan about how tired we are, as if this is the first morning in our entire lives in which we've had to get up early. It's like we are genuinely surprised to have this new feeling of "tiredness."
7:41 Chris drops me off under the bridge and I run up the stairs to Michigan ave as fast as freakishly possible hoping to avoid the underground homeless people I know who are lurking close by.
7:44 Press "door close" in the elevator so many times I nearly break the button. Riding up to the 10th floor alone in the morning is just one of those small joys I really need.
7:56 I have barely finishing eating my breakfast at my desk before I am thinking about lunch. I need grease. I want Dt. Dew. I want it now.
And then work sets in. And my desire to entertain myself with food continues to grow more intense with each cold call/voicemail/email I send. I want chips. I want Chinese. Crab raccoons! Sushi? Soda pop! Candy. Cookies. Pizzzza. Mmmm yes, pizza. Fries. It's only 8:11. Kill me.
I blackout between 8:30-11 stuck in a dazed like repetitive motion.
I force myself to wait until 11:10 before I order Jimmy Johns. Beach Club, chips, drink, cookie, no mayo... I want to be healthy. So instead I ask for extra mini mayo packets on the side.
By 11:40 I am done eating. I have practically eaten the paper it comes wrapped in. I wait all morning for something that is over within five minutes. It's awful. And now I'm tired and full and have to wait a few more hours before it's considered appropriate to eat again. This, my friend, is the meaning of Hungover Games. You don't choose it, it chooses you.
The reason I am a participant in this evil game might have something to do with the OAR concert Chris and I attended last night.
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| We had drinks at the infamous Greel Mill Lounge before the concert. (Al Capone's old hang out) And what I actually mean is we ate nachos next door to the Green Mill at the commercial sports bar because the Green Mill is too cool to serve nachos. But we have drank here before, just for the record. |
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| The venue was the Aragon ball room. We were VIP in the balcony. That's me with the black hat and beard gesturing at the peasants below. |
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| It was fun for a change to be so close to the band, yet up above, rather than on the floor next to all of the sweaty, pot smoking, general admittance losers. I felt just like Abe Lincoln. |
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| My biggest challenge was resisting the urge to flick my beer onto everyone below. One time. One time was all I wanted to try it. But of course Chris told me No. And with no warning at all, it was already Friday morning. And I was the newest member of the Hungover Games. May the best player win. I'm already losing. |
