I really wish there was a word that easily or accurately describes the fragile and manic/bacchanal state of mind that accompanies a particularly memorable hangover. My brain—it feels like what I imagine a circus in Oklahoma pulled part by a tornado would look like—zebras carnies lions geeks trapeze tall hats, performers the audience wires—the nihilistic hyper awareness drawing your limbs tighter and your stream of consciousness—more like a long sagging mucous crest of matted and wet fur—coaxed out with little or no censorship, orgies of possibilities and ideas on offer and offered without hesitation. The do-not-give-a-fuck switch usually under lock, key and camera is otherwise turned off and strangely unguarded. But then, it slowly dries up and you’re left with that horrible  sour tang-in-the-mouth, the steel taut limbs the otherwise hilarious enduring state just cracks and the unusually tolerable headache and swollen gut drag on and on until you fall asleep.

I really wish there was a word that easily or accurately describes the fragile and manic/bacchanal state of mind that accompanies a particularly memorable hangover. My brain—it feels like what I imagine a circus in Oklahoma pulled part by a tornado would look like—zebras carnies lions geeks trapeze tall hats, performers the audience wires—the nihilistic hyper awareness drawing your limbs tighter and your stream of consciousness—more like a long sagging mucous crest of matted and wet fur—coaxed out with little or no censorship, orgies of possibilities and ideas on offer and offered without hesitation. The do-not-give-a-fuck switch usually under lock, key and camera is otherwise turned off and strangely unguarded. But then, it slowly dries up and you’re left with that horrible  sour tang-in-the-mouth, the steel taut limbs the otherwise hilarious enduring state just cracks and the unusually tolerable headache and swollen gut drag on and on until you fall asleep.

(via fuckyeahbuttlovin)