April 25th, 2004

Tom Lehrer is Smug

The pizza got me high

Last night I staggered out of the midnight showing of Fight Club at the AMC Fenway (where, among other things, I was chagrined to realize I was the second-oldest person in a crowded theater, hooray hooray) and realized I was feeling, well, woozy. Not that consumerist-inspired nihilism won't do that to a fellow, mind you, and truth be told the chatter I heard coming out of the theater was kind of, well, wooze-inducing ("What a great movie," one kid said, with all honesty, "And full of great messages!")

I remember staggering out to the car, trying to make the conversation with four other people, and eventually just sort of standing outside Rachel's place while rides-home were divvied up. At this point I felt like I was medicated, you know, well and duly medicated. My head was numb and I kept doing that prolonged blink thing that accompanies the mental state of "holy crap, my head ain't together."

"Are you all right?" Rachel asked.

"I don't know," I replied.

"Are you all right?" Erika asked, when I fell into the back seat of her car.

"I don't know," I replied.

I was dropped off at my corner, stumbled onto the sidewalk, instinctively ducked at a head-level shadow (yowch), made it to the house, and drunk-stumbled up the stairs at a far slower rate than I should've been. Honestly, I've stumbled home actually drunk before, and done things much quicker. I remember the light level in the hallway due to the Christmas lights the downstairs neighbors have put up because the hallway bulbs keep burning out -- anyway, I thought the light was very pretty. That's when I knew I was proper fucked.

More often than not, when your mind is in an altered state, you put it there intentionally. So you know what's happening and why and, in many cases, armed with this self-awareness, you can just sit back and enjoy the ride. This wasn't enjoyable, though. It was downright unpleasant. I was slumped in the computer chair, trying to hit monkey keys on this keyboard to make words come out. I felt like the scene in The Maltese Falcon where Sydney Greenstreet slips Bogie the mickey, and he tries to remain conscious and talk and still be cool, but we're switching to the first-person POV that slips further and further out of focus, and then down Bogie goes. Only I didn't have the hired goon kick me in the head once I was down.

I remembered earlier this evening when I had some truly atrocious burps, you know the kind, the "holy crap there's something dead in my stomach and it's trying to claw its way out" that resonate in your throat and make you more self-conscious than any human being has the right to be. Of course. I hadn't put two and two together yet, and in this mindset while I idly batted at letter keys, I wasn't sure I could put two and two together and even get an integer, but I did and I realized it.

At any rate, I banged on the keyboard for a while and did the second of my two weekly reviews (I have yet to re-read it; I don't want to ruin the sparkle that was on it when I submitted it with a messed-up head) and then fell asleep. Three hours later, in the middle of the fever dreams, a frenzied, stumbled run to the bathroom confirmed it. Oh yeah. Food poisoning.

Must've been the leftover pizza. Hadn't been refrigerated properly, with the hermetic seal and the clean room environment and -- oh, hell, who am I kidding, I left the box out overnight and forgot to put it in the fridge and ate the last two pieces microwaved up. There, I said it, I admit it, it's all my fault. I attempted to demonstrate my culinary superiority and I paid through the... er, I sure did pay for it. One fine hellnight indeed, one I'd gladly chew off an appendage rather than go through again.

The pizza was delicious, though.