Words by Zack Raffin | Illustration by Sima Moser
For the debaucherous amongst us, the touch of pursed lips to a perfectly chilled martini can only be likened to that of a papal communion.
The heat. The sound of the round glass bass pinging against a thick wooden bar table. The beckoning of its dainty stem, inviting you to a place you know oh so well. One more and you’re the life of the party; surely a third can do you no harm. The beautiful unknown of a night yet discovered awaits you as the bar staff plays the distinct percussive rhythm of ice vs metal.
With an absent mind, you notice a glimmer reflecting off the golden mire with which you’re about to descend. The swamp awaits you.
Weaving about a myriad of ornamental personalities, darting eyes cast glances of desire from all angles. Deceit lurks in the darkest corner. Calls go unanswered, the requests of outsiders a weight pulling you into an orbit of a world of which you want no part. The moment is polluted with your foundational sin, but one thing is certain: the normalcy of the day is nowhere to be found in the dancing shadows of this night.
Next, a fog. A confusing, mystifying fog.
You awaken, wishing that you hadn’t. Eyes open beneath a thick crust. The joy and exuberance of the night are replaced by the hand of satan gesticulating your new reality.
Nothing in this life is free. But you already knew this. You’ve been here before.
Around and around you go, praying for salvation, praying for relief that will not come for a day (or two). The dizziness of despair doesn’t creep within your psyche; it bombards you with napalm. The match is lit as a maniacal, demonic laugh echoes throughout your over-pressurised cranium. Unfortunately for you, this balloon won’t pop, nor is it free to float upwards. No, no, this balloon is caught in the ceiling fan of the worst birthday party you’ve ever been to, its string wound tightly around blades of anguish.
Down the drain you go. The fire was bright and sinful, and now you must lick your wounds with contrition. You whip out the laundry list of remedies at your disposal. Ibuprofen, water, coffee, pastry, yes, they bring relief… but no sanctity. It lingers, it must. The pain you feel is but a testament to your intense and overwhelming perspective.
Hangovers.
They fucking suck.
In sobriety, sometimes I think longingly about the taste of those perfectly chilled martinis.
I never miss the hellacious realms they bring me to.
Notes:
There’s nothing quite like the rambunctious, thorny energy before a big night out. Anticipation meets wrongdoing to create a potent cocktail of sweet, sweet release. A swirling cacophony of misdeeds is on the menu, and after a long week, your craving is about to be satiated.
Excitement booms from within.
