Dark Knight Rises or: I grinned for nearly three hours.

Like I detailed in my last post, my excitement regarding the release of The Dark Knight Rises has heralded a level of anticipation and gleeful hand-clapping. It's a level almost unheard of even for me, someone known for constantly unrealistically high expectations when it comes to things I'm looking forward to. But at along last, I finally got around to seeing DKR a couple of Sundays ago, an agonising four days after it was released. Four days. Pure torture, it was.

So. What think?

Right off the bat, I'll declare this much: it blows The Avengers and Prometheus out of the water. I know that during Prometheus I was a bundle of cinema good-time joy, and was speaking very loudly with wildly waving limbs after leaving the cinema. However, in the days that followed I couldn't help but notice all of the gaping plot holes that had abounded. The Avengers was fun, but I distinctly remember thinking during the first act "Man, I hope this gets good, and soon". That isn't to say that I didn't get a giant kick out of it, but I suppose my stupidly high expectations weren't met. However Dark Knight Rises had me giggling hysterically and grinning like a madman throughout the entire running time. Not because I found what was going on particularly amusing - although there are a couple of choice comedic moments - but more because the excitement I felt was such that it had to physically manifest in some way. No mean feat that, with the film clocking in at a Lawrence of Arabia-esque 165 minutes.

The film began, and my arms actually began to make sharp, excited gleeful, jerky movements. My hands were balled up into fists and I was trying to stifle giggles of wound-up excitement. I am not even exaggerating, not one smidgen. The anticipation! The expectation! The Batman love! The pressure resting on the shoulders of Nolan and co, to do justice to this generation's and/or century's defining trilogy. The Matrix, if you will, if it hadn't ended up sucking. 

Now I'll attempt to keep this a spoiler-free zone, but you'll please forgive me if I overstep the bounds of what you don't want to hear. 

The third installment of Christopher Nolan's re-imagining of the Batman movie franchise opens with Bruce Wayne looking more on the Rescue Dawn area of the Christian Bale body bulk spectrum than in the two Batman outings that came prior to DKR. Perhaps that's an exaggeration, but certainly Mr Wayne looks somewhat more haggard than usual. This surprising transformation is a result of the eight-year gap in time between The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises; Master Wayne has holed himself up in Wayne Manor, seeing and speaking to no one. Thanks to the Dent Act (Harvey Dent! Remember him? Isn't it all coming back to you now? Isn't this exiciting??), Gotham City's found some semblance of peace, but oh my, is it still ever gritty gritty gritty. Organized crime is at an all time low, prison populations are at a high, and poor old Bruce is wallowing in despair, self-loathing and a leg injury.

"Michael Caine talks like this"

It's at this point that - obviously - the time is nigh for characters, overlapping plots, intrigue and danger to begin stacking up like the piles of rubble that inevitably litter Gotham City at each film's close.

Seriously, as a citizen of Gotham wouldn't you get sick to death of having your neighbourhood totalled on a regular basis?

I'm tempted to say that the first half of DKR suffers from an over-abundance of characters - new and old - and a slight murkiness of plot that makes it difficult to distinguish how and why things and people are doing what they're doing. I didn't find that to be detrimental while watching the film and almost jumping out of my seat whenever Bruce Wayne did anything vaguely cool, but certainly it's something to consider. There's Joseph Gordon-Levitt as a driven young cop, Gary Oldman as the police commissioner, and Marion Cotillard as Miranda Tate, a millionaire do-gooder who might be able to save the struggling Wayne Enterprises. There's ever-present Alfred (Michael Caine), and Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman), as well as Matthew Modine as another cop type, and a couple of other billionaire types. That's not even counting the other two pivotal "superheroes" of the film: Catwoman (Anne Hathaway), and Bane (Tom Hardy, looking about the size of a truck). It really is a cast of thousands. 

To describe what ensues would be complicated and fairly long-winded, as well as rife with spoilers. This much I hope will suffice: Bane is operating out of an underground stronghold, Miranda wants to help Wayne Enterprises with an energy source, Catwoman meets Batman, Joseph Gordon-Levitt begins helping the commissioner snooping around. Bane extorts some money, seems hell-bent on destroying Gotham, but also in inciting a monumental class war/revolution. What's his Bane's true motivation? Will Bruce Wayne don the Batman cape again? Will Gotham be saved? Will Batman survive this one? How did Tom Hardy get so BIG?

Dark Knight Rises does clock in at the monumental 165-minute mark, but I for one didn't feel like I was sitting through anything vaguely marathon-like. That's even taking into consideration the fact that I desperately had to pee for most of the film's running time (but that's a different story entirely). The film rollicked along at a steady pace, the set-pieces were exciting as all hell - albeit slightly shorter than The Dark Knight. It's almost a given that the performances in DKR are pretty spot on. You could say they're as solid as Tom Hardy's Bane. To say he's doing the two-suitcase walk would be an understatement...

Seriously though, the merry band of Nolan's acting posse are all in top form. Special mention to Michael Caine, who spends just about all of his scenes on the verge of tears, delivering monologues. Not that tearful monologues are an instant tick in the "GOOD ACTING" box, but he does it pretty damn well.

Christian Bale - badass. Boss. I was always going to think that of him, but goddamn, I'm continually rediscovering/re-remembering how much I enjoy his Batman. Okay, here's how much I enjoyed the performances: I usually find Anne Hathaway to be incredibly annoying. Sure she's hot, but you know ... hit and miss in my opinion. Here though? Badass. She brings just the right amount of the crazies and the right amount of something likable to Catwoman. Am I gushing? Apologies. I did warn of the fact that I spent most of the film giggling with excitement and doing that stupid finger-flicking move that indicates one being impressed by something badass or epic or worth expressing in a way more immediate than waiting until the credits roll to grab the arm of the person next to you and hiss "THAT WAS SO FUCKING GOOD" with wide-eyed manic excitement.

What was I talking about? Performances. Performances, they were good. 

With regard to the inevitable comparison between Bane and the Joker, I have this to say: it is futile to compare them. They're different villains. For Nolan, Hardy et al to attempt to one-up the Joker would be an exercise in failure. Sure, Heath Ledger's Joker was the type of performance that doesn't often come around, but let's not forget the truly awful abundance of guys dressed in purple jackets and shitty face paint at EVERY HALLOWEEN PARTY that The Joker inspired. I am sure it'll be those wannabe Jokers who have "Why So Serious?" in their Facebook quotes section who'll be most vocal about that particular gripe. In all seriousness though, it is unlikely that Bane was ever destined to have that same manic, malicious humour, nor the sense of dangerous unpredictability. Nor was it ever going to be wise to attempt that sort of character again. Bane is menacing and terrifying, but in a more hulking, sense-of-doom, what-the-hell's-his-story kind of way. The pounding clang of his footsteps as he storms toward a very battered Batman (I promise that's not a spoiler, of course they're going to have at least a couple of showdowns), it sent me into a knees-up-on-seat stressed out wail. I wasn't kidding when I said my reaction to the film was a very physical one...

If I'm going to allow myself one beef with Bane though, it's undoubtedly with his voice. In his initial scenes especially, his voice seems almost comical. I am certain the first few trailers I saw for DKR, Bane's voice was rather more menacing, gravelly, terrifying. Also slightly indecipherable, which I guess prompted the change. Surely though, there's a happy medium somewhere in the middle of "indecipherable" and "cheery Darth Vader". His slightly smart aleck-y, Darth Vader with less asthma-esque voice to me seemed to be at odds with the hulking, formidable frame of Bane, as well as the menace in his eyes. They say the eyes are the window of some description, but coupled with that voice the two halves of Hardy's performance occasionally just didn't add up. I refer to the first act for the most part in this gripe; as The Dark Knight Rises rollicks towards its conclusion, I completely forgot about my issues with Bane's voice. Perhaps that's because his voice became as menacing as his actions, perhaps that's because I was swept up in the goings-on. 

I can see some elements of Dark Knight Rises as being destined to irritate people, some leaps of faith/suspensions of reality I'm sure some won't be willing to take. And it's true, I suppose I was always going to attempt to see the best in Dark Knight Rises. I was always going to take that leap of faith. I took those couple of occurrences glaring with unbelievability and I just went ahead and rolled with 'em.  After all, this was the film that I'd been counting down until for months. Honestly, DKR could have probably been at least half an hour shorter. I mean, I'm not complaining - I looked at my watch at one point and rejoiced that there was still SO MUCH FILM LEFT. But yes, it definitely could have been shorter. Furthermore, the last act could have been a bit less confusing. In my defense I did have to pee and it was completely excruciating and I even undid the belt and the top button of those stupidly tight jeans in order to hang in there BUT at times I was unsure of why certain things were happening and exactly to whom.

Then again, even while saying that I can't help but only remember how much of a good time I was having. Multiple times I jumped forward in my seat and actually exclaimed, "Oh, SHIT!" because someone onscreen just did something super cool. Personally, I think any time a film incites that sort of a reaction from someone is no mean feat. The action set-pieces aren't quite as long as those in Dark Knight, but certainly they do showcase the myriad ways in which Batman is a complete badass. Eluding cops, attending charity galas, hanging out in the Batcave; he really does do all sorts of things quite well.

I'm afraid this has turned from "review" into something more closely resembling "ramble". For this I make no apologies - just the way I make no apologies for being so fidgety in my seat while in the cinema. Firstly, I really needed to pee. Secondly, The Dark Knight Rises was exciting! I enjoy being immersed in Gotham's dark, gritty, fucked up world full of fucked up people feigning at being superheroes. I totally get a kick out of delving back into Bruce Wayne's damaged psyche, seeing what drives him to don the cape again. I love a good showdown. I love explosions and Anne Hathaway beating up dudes and cities getting leveled and I really do dig me some Gary Oldman. And Christian Bale. Boy oh boy, is Christian Bale good. Somewhere within me a part of me had a bit of a problem with the ending of The Dark Knight Rises but most of me was giggling and grabbing at the sleeve of a viewing companion. Can I just take this moment to assure you all that I'm not usually obnoxiously loud and hyperactive while at the movies. It's just that THIS WAS BATMAN. The end of the trilogy.

There are things wrong with The Dark Knight Rises. Of course there are. But at the end of the two-and-a-half hour sojourn in Gotham (while getting visually punched in the face by an Imax screen) I immediately turned to Mike and Ev and exclaimed "Let's do that again! Seriously. I want to see that again. Right now. Fuck me, I'm going to see it again THIS AFTERNOON."

WE HAVE THE INTERNET.

IT'S TRUE.

After a long, long ordeal that isn't worth re-telling because it's a long, long, pointless story filled with sighs, Mike rang me this afternoon to announce "WE HAVE INTERNET"

I could hear his excitement through the phone. You know when you can hear a person pacing around excitedly, not knowing where to go or what to do, when you can hear a beaming smile?

That's what I could hear. Mike even confessed he'd considered biking over to my workplace in order to deliver the news in person. That's how momentous an occasion this is. Poor Miguel's been the one dealing with the phone company, the technicians, the real estate. He's been the one scrawling down reference numbers, then snapping when our case had been deemed "closed" by Optus. I have a bottle of champagne in my possession; frankly, I think it'll be popped open tomorrow.

The moment Mike told me of our connection to the world wide web however, began to giggle and screech like an insanely happy banshee upon hearing whatever makes a banshee insanely happy. I would guess that banshees also appreciate the myriad wonders of the internet. Who wouldn't?

I almost didn't want to go to the movies tonight, such was my internet-joy. Why would I do anything else when the promise of downloading things, of Reddit and pictures and interesting articles and pointless collections of gifs was so near? I'm glad I did end up hitting the cinematorium, because I am Eleven is really quite the enjoyable documentary BUT that's not to say that I didn't fidget in my seat while we got burgers afterward because I could FEEL THE POSSIBILITIES THAT LAY SO CLOSE. 

Would you like to know what my immediate moves were? I suppose this says quite a lot about me, but no matter.

Firstly, I didn't even do the usual TAKE OFF CLOTHES AND PUT ON OVERSIZED TSHIRT AND TRACK PANTS maneuver I pull as soon as I walk in the door. Instead, I immediately sat down at my desk and opened Reddit. Then Facebook. Then Le Meme. Then What should we call me. Then I put on this video in the background:

YES. NEW MUSIC. NEW MUSIC TO ADD TO MY IPOD. 

Then I began looking at ridiculous photos. I cruised through about four months' worth of smut and ridiculous inanity on Le Meme. For instance:

Then I went on Reddit some more. 

Then I began to read all the things I wanted to read whilst at work but couldn't for fear of someone seeing what I was reading. My desk is one of those conveniently placed beasts, one that is in full view of just about everyone. It makes my day entertaining, because I have no shortage of visitors and lively distractions BUT it does mean that I've now committed to memory the different sounds of all my co-workers' footsteps. There's just something about the prospect of being caught reading The Vice Guide to Eating Pussy that isn't super attractive to me. And there's just something about being caught watching  Gilbert Gottfried read 50 Shades of Grey that doesn't appeal to me either. 

Seriously though, I suspect I'm way too excited about this whole internet thing than I should be. I must make sure to harness this energy into something constructive, and to steer clear of the slippery, slippery slope that starts with Reddit and ends with a weekend of poor hygiene, shitty food and about four days' worth of Tim and Eric videos on Youtube crammed into two sleepless nights. 

Oh, internet. I missed you so.

I have a face.

I was just now walking down the stairs at work, when I remembered something funny that happened earlier. To be honest, it wasn't even particularly funny and thus doesn't warrant being shared. However, it made me grin to myself.

It was then that I happened upon a startling realisation: that I have a face.

I HAVE A FACE THAT I CANNOT SEE. 

Of course, this isn't an actual realisation. I know that I have a face. At that moment though, I became VERY, VERY AWARE of my face, and the fact that I cannot see it.

I was suddenly aware of the fact that the most of the time, I cannot see my face. Yet EVERYONE ELSE can see my face. If they happen to be looking at me.

FURTHERMORE, most of the time - the time in which I am not looking at a mirror - I only have a vague idea of what my face looks like. I then began thinking about how others might perceive my face, that I might have an entirely inaccurate read of what my face is and what it looks like when it does what and OH GOD, I CAN FEEL MY FACE ON THE FRONT OF MY HEAD.

You know that feeling, the feeling you get when you're suddenly really aware of your tongue, or your breathing pattern? Then you can't breathe or talk properly? There, you're aware now. Exactly like that. Except with your face.

So I stopped where I was on the stairs and began to giggle, clutching at the wall. I am sure that if I were in a shitty mood, or if I were overtired, I'd have launched into a full-blown freak-out. Luckily, I did not.

It's at this point that I became aware of my face.

And it's here that I had to check that it was really
there on the front of my head.

As one, let's now thank my sanity for allowing me to go down the significantly less embarrassing route of "hysterical giggle and light sweats".

Shortly afterward, a co-worker pal also descended the stairs (by then I'd gotten over my temporary paralysis and found my way back to my desk). I told him what had happened, between fits of laughter.

"Are you high?" he asked, not joking.

"NO! I'm not. I just ... I dunno. I didn't freak out, I just noticed my face."

"I think this is what happens to coke addicts" Billy replied, looking like he was torn between laughter and genuine concern.

I started pawing at my face. "I just noticed my face and that I can't see my face but other people can!!"

"I HAVE A FACE"

Dark Knight Rises - fever pitch excitement

I see the trickle of reactions on my Facebook feed.

I browse Reddit always ready to avert my eyes and throw the computer off the desk.

I bought my tickets for Sunday morning, and I'll be damned if anyone spoils it for me.

The Dark Knight Rises ... the time has come, the threat has been declared, with maimed limbs and burst eardrums being the consequences.

This has been flogged to death on Facebook, but I suppose that's because
it's fairly accurate.

Perhaps I wouldn't actually go that far, but don't you be thinking for a moment that I'll be holding back as far as punches in the arms and screeching cries of "FUCK YOU" if someone gives away one iota of spoiler more than "It was awesome!" or "Meh".

I see the trickle of reactions gaining pace on my Facebook and Twitter feeds and it's all I can do to keep my excitement in check.

So far, 2012 has seen me in an almost perpetually state of excitement re: event films. Big, nerdy blockbuster releases is what I'm talking about, and mentally fapping about. I am of course, referring to the three-fold punch consisting of The Avengers, Prometheus and The Dark Knight Rises. Each has seen me count down the days before I get to see it, getting more and more giddy with excitement with each passing day. I'm sure the view count of the trailer for each rise considerably because of me. Before heading to the cinema to finally feast my eyes on the cinematic adventure I'd been so excited about, I've been known to actually squeal with excitement.

I'll say this much, any film would be hard-pressed to live up to that sort of anticipation.

The Avengers was a great time at the movies, but I found that it didn't blow my mind quite as much as I'd hoped it would (Hulk's assault on Loki notwithstanding, I think I laughed so hard I choked).

Prometheus made me talk very loudly with crazy arm-waving gesticulations for the entirety of the half-hour walk home. It most definitely blew my mind, with the gaping and ridiculous plot-holes only really starting to irritate me well after I'd calmed down over the week. I'm the first to admit Prometheus was rife with people and things and occurrences that made next to no sense, but in no way did I let that tarnish the amazing time I had while sitting in the theatre. Any film that can illicit an audible "GodDAMN!" from me, and send Mike and I into writhing fits of "OH SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT" is worthy of a bit in the way of kudos.

All that's left is The Dark Knight Rises. That's on Sunday. Only a few days away.

The reason I have to wait so long is because there was never any question of where we were going to see it: IMAX. In fact, I asked both Ev and Mike on separate occasions what their location preference was, and both immediately replied with, "Uhh. IMAX. Duh...". They seemed almost insulted on behalf of the film that I even had to ask. Which is fair enough, I suppose. Mr Nolan did shoot about an hour of the film for a giant big-ass screen.

To be honest, our seats are probably quite shitty and I'll probably need a neck brace afterwards and I'll probably be even more deaf and no doubt I'll have had to fling my face from left to right to see what's actually going on BUT right now I actually don't really care.

There's not much point to this post apart from expressing how excited I am. I also know that merely sending this out into the internet is tantamount to inviting someone to ruin it for me. I also know that I really, really, REALLY should be attempting to curb my excitement.

BUUUUUUUUT it's kind of too late for that.

THE DAMAGE HAS BEEN DONE.

SUNDAY PLEASE.

Toorak is a Strange Place #1 : Makeup

I raged.

I've moved to a suburb where it is impossible to buy makeup.

I'll admit, buying makeup - along with bras, jeans, and when in a foreign country, tampons - is not one of my strong suits. Being that I'm of the female gender, I should have mastered at least a few of those activities by now. That sadly, is not the case. And now that I'm living in the midst of "luxury" it appears buying makeup has become even more of a difficult, drawn-out process.

Hell, you'd think that living in suburb known for its wealth would be conducive to things being first-world easy. Not so it seems; I write this from work, because our phone lines are apparently unfit to exist. This week my workplace has also doubled as the place where I shower, because our shower head has given up on life. That though, is an entirely different story. 

I digress. Back to makeup: one of my many missing skills. Missing, like my makeup. Lost during the move, or maybe I forgot to pack it, or maybe I just didn't really care. I have one thing of foundation, one blush, one eyeliner thing, and I think at one point I had some eye shadow but I'm fairly certain that went missing a while ago. The reason for my scant collection of face paint is two-fold: Not only do I rarely wear anything more than mascara (which I do buy often) and thus see no point in buying truckloads of it, but I find the process of buying makeup to be overwhelming and confusing.

Apparently there's a layer of stuff that you put on your face before the foundation? Is there something to put on afterwards? HOW MANY LAYERS DO YOU END UP WITH?? What colour goes with what on your eyes? Why does that matter? Which part of your face does the blush go on? Do I care? HOW THE HELL DO LADIES GET THAT LIQUID EYELINER STUFF TO GO ON IN A STRAIGHT LINE? DO YOU ALL HAVE THE STEADY HANDS OF A SURGEON??

I remember the first time I bought make up for myself - keep in mind this probably happened after I finished high school - the scene happened a lot like this: 

Shopgirl: Can I help you?
Reb: (looking terrified and confused) Um...I need make up. 

Shopgirl: Okay...foundation?

Reb: Um...yes? Yes. I think so? Yes. The kind that doesn't look like I'm pancaked in paint. Thanks?

I have at times attempted to learn these mysteries of being a Lady.The moment I started wearing eyeliner was a victorious, momentous day. That being said, my approach to eyeliner is to haphazardly scribble near my eye then smudge it to oblivion. Still, I learned!

Me, up until a couple of years ago.

You know, if I were to start wearing makeup everyday, people would get used to seeing me wearing make up every day. Then if I stopped all of a sudden, people would immediately think I had the plague, or leprosy. Such is the slippery slope of bothering to look good. Girl, ain't no one got time for that.

Anyway, last week I acquired a giant pimple in the middle of my face. A real doozy, a big red sunvabitch situated not on my chin or nose but right in the middle of my cheek. Good stuff it was, really convenient that was. I enjoy that sort of addition to my head right before a party. I looked like a Clearasil ad, but without a cut to a smiling, blemish-free me. 

Off to the shops I wandered, with an immediate first stop that yielded no victory. All the shades available were very, very white. They ranged from "Don't Spill Anything on the New White Rug" and edged towards "Slightly Sunkissed". Nothing at all within the "Ethnic Brown" spectrum at all. Darn.

So I walked across the street to the nearest pharmacy. I walked inside and immediately roundhouse kicked in the head with confusion. While there were more shades than my previous stop, another problem reared its ugly, shiny head. The only makeup they had- and this is no exaggeration whatsoever - was the super expensive kind in boxes with very reflective surfaces. Nothing else. Just designer wares at roughly mortgage-your-house-to-coat-your-face prices. Of course, I'm speaking in hyperbole. To a lady who wants the very best for her face because she values good quality make up, I'm sure those prices are completely reasonable. And while I hardly am the type to buy the height of CHEEP CHEEP CHEEP, I can hardly justify spending all that money on things I barely give a single shit about. I mean, I could spend that money on things I want! For instance, records. Or a new jumper for Elvis. Or a jumper with a picture of Elvis on it. Or a new dress. And new boots! I do need new boots. I do not need designer makeup. 

I stood there in the pharmacy, surrounded by shiny reflective surfaces, looking lost and probably vaguely in pain. Then I left. I walked home, defeated and deflated with a second face growing out of my cheek. For those of you playing at home, I did in fact pass another pharmacy on the way back. Unfortunately for everyone involved (me), it was closed. At 6:15pm on a Friday. 

WHAT IS THIS SUBURB THAT I'M LIVING IN???

Look, how I feel about making myself up is somewhere in between LOOK GOOD AT ALL TIMES and NEVER BOTHER. I do care about having a giant monstrosity of a pimple on my face. I shower every day. I have been known to walk down to the shops wearing a ripped t-shirt and obnoxious Peruvian trousers, but I buy nice dresses and I (for the most part) make sure I fit within my own bounds of "Cool. I'm looking good today." Should I be ashamed of not wanting to spend a month's rent to stock up on expensive makeup? It seems I will be driving to a shopping centre to hit up a Priceline, tail between my legs. 

A Birthday Video

We still don't have the internet.

Apparently our phone lines are unqualified for any and all tasks a phone line must undertake. Frankly, I don't think we'll have the internet any time soon. While I am still enjoying the lack of distraction and the fact that I don't spend hours every night on Reddit, it's beginning to wear a little thin.

Furthermore, not having access to the internet meant that it was more than a little difficult to upload the following video in time for my dear friend Karin's birthday.

But no matter! After a trip back to the familial abode to visit my brother and Elvis, the video made it onto the 'tubes in the end, with plenty of hours to spare on Karin's day of birth.

Anyway, feast your eyes on the cavalcade of good looking people I call my pals! I unfortunately didn't take part in the "market shoot", seeing as I was in the throes of a horrid hangover; the one that inspired my last post, as it were). This is partly the reason I'm not drinking for a month. (A task that's proving to be quite difficult given the amount of shindigs my pals have organised for the next month, thanks for asking)

 

Consider the Hangover

The hangover is a mean, ugly, vile beast. It doesn't really have any natural predators. There are some who make wild claims that they are immune to its evils and ploys and attacks, but they are liars. Liars, or ignorant (wilfully or otherwise), or they are under the age of 20. The hangover is part dragon, part fighter jet, and part buffalo. And rhino. There's probably an angry, raging rhino somewhere in there.

The hangover takes no prisoners as it struts/barrels/lurks forbodingly through life. The hangover storms down the road without a care in the world. It's like a kid knocking over another kid's sandcastle. It leaves a trail of destruction in its wake without ever giving a fuck about the consequences, about what people may think of its actions. I'd like to be a badass of hangover proportions, but alas I know that I am not.

The hangover renders each person it touches debilitated. Varying degrees of incapacitated reached and surpassed by those who incurred the hangover's wrath, while the hangover stands by and watches without ever feeling sympathy. After all, that which induces a beating from Mr Hangover were approached with prior knowledge of the consequences. I, you or they may have even at one point yelled above the music, "MAN, I am going to pay for this tomorrow!"

They who now moan in pain, spend aeons in the shower, enjoy a morning sitting next to a toilet, or gorge themselves on bacon and remorse knew that the hangover is a motherfucker who ain't one for carin', especially after it punches you in the face.

Now that I think about it, the hangover is a real piece of work. I oughta take it outside, give it a piece of my mind. A swift kick in the dick, perhaps. I know that I won't though. The hangover reduces me to a monosyllabic blob of pain, misery and waves of nausea. I am a veritable surfer, such are those waves. Or rather, I surf as well as one can when your head feels as if it's been stomped on by a morbidly obese man wearing shoes with cleats.

The hangover sits on the couch next to me and smirks while I guzzle up an entire box of barbeque Shapes at 5pm after spending most of the day up until that point with the toilet bowl, or a bucket. The hangover shakes its head in feigned disappointment (read: actual amusement) as messages are sent to friends, "Sorry man! Won't be able to make it today. I've got an editing job that I really have to finish. Dinner next week?". THE HANGOVER MAKES YOU LIE. I WAS NOT EDITING. I was in the midst of a nauseous self-berating. The hangover makes you lie to others, and yourself.

"No ... I'm pretty sure I left before I made a real ass of myself."

WRONG. 

The hangover knows this, and isn't afraid of informing you. With a smart-ass, self-satisfied grin. The hangover is a dick. My work here is done, it thinks, while knowing it'll never really be done. It isn't ashamed of striking down an entire house's worth of sleeping bodies during the night. Indeed, the hangover revels in its ability to do so. Seemingly overnight it deals out the destruction (that's not even factoring in the destruction dealt to the house), and not a single fuck is given. I don't think the hangover has any friends, but I don't think the hangover cares. The hangover's probably a bit of a sociopath. A troll, of the highest order. I wake up with The Shame (oh, the shame of it all), and the hangover says "U MAD?" 

One might occasionally want to be a no-fuck-giving boss a la the hangover occasionally. I for one, would like a devil-may-care swagger to accompany me through my day. The thing is though, I do care about trails of destruction being left in my wake. I'm the one who ends up responding to questions with "Hnnnggsrrrhshhh...", after eating one metric shit-tonne of bacon. I can't ever not give a fuck if I leave that trail of destruction. I am not a part-dragon, part-buffalo, part-fighter jet, part-rhino, all-not-give-a-fuck creature. And that is why I consider the hangover after having to deal with its smug aura of self-satisfaction while I spend the day watching The Big Bang Theory instead of The Wire because my brain just cannot handle it. I consider it, and now I've decided to steer clear of it. At least, for a little while.

I'm doing Dry July, y'all!