There was a time, not that long ago, where I could get rip-roarin’ drunk and get up early and go to work the next day. It sucked, but I managed. Hell, sometimes I’d get off work and start the whole process over again.
That time is gone. I’ll be 26 next Monday, and I think I am out of my drinking prime. I’ve uttered the words never again in reference to drinking a couple thousand times in my life, but I think I actually may have meant it yesterday morning.
The other day I was informed by Tate that this Saturday our city’s new soccer team would play their very first home game. Tate is a huge soccer fan, and I know how excited he is about the fact that he finally has a local team to cheer for, but I am not so zealous. When he asked me if I wanted to go, I gave a very non-committal “ehh…” He responded with, “don’t you want to witness history?”
I have heard it said that people in their twenties are better at hangovers than people in their thirties, but I think the cut off point is age 25. Why, you might ask? Because I felt worse Sunday than when I had the flu. One day was worse than an entire week. That’s why.
It all started innocently enough on Saturday evening with an “Ugly Christmas Sweater” party Tate and I had to go to at his aunt’s house. Now, this is his more religious side of the family, so alcohol shouldn’t have even been involved, but we shook things up a bit this year a la Maker’s Mark whisky.
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