Sobering Sundays: Touched by Awesomeness

I haven't woken up feeling like this in quite some time. You know, when it feels like you were blocking punches with your face, balls, and colon the night before. My room smelled like an overflowing porta-john. Actually, I'm willing to bet that a porta-john would be insulted if it smelled my room - given that it had a nose and was capable of feeling human emotions. The air was thick and lingered with a stagnant resolve at the edge of my nostrils. It was filled with a rather distinct aroma comprised of a beer fart base, with layers of partially digested meats, cheese, and topped off with hints of a rather sulfur-ious egg salad. And yes, I was naked. My vision, or the lack thereof, was nefariously blurry. And just to be perfectly clear (get it hehe), I couldn't see shit. I, with a herculean effort, willed my way to the bathroom. Something was dying to get out, and who was I to deny it? This wretched rot was clawing through my entrails, my bowels were reminding me of this awful reality some may call sobriety. The pain was evil incarnate itself. A conglomeration of malodorous scents and a paste like substance that was neither liquid, nor solid. And it all burned. The orifices of my nether regions were angrily purging me of whatever debauchery I was a part of the night before. I would have screamed if the fecal exorcism didn't have me gasping for air to prevent from blacking out. Such brutal physicality should be illegal. If enlightenment was reached through pain, I'd be infinitely closer to god.

What little hydration I had left was slowly collecting in my eyes. I was the new face and body for Hurt Clothing, and I was covered in it - head to toe. Beneath the ringing in my head, from the dryness of my lips, I mouthed a faintly audible whisper - "what happened?" My vision was slowly clearing. And there I was, faced with one hot mess of a reflection and a partially activated gag reflex from what was quickly becoming a toxic environment. I was hurting everywhere. Even my eyebrows fucking hurt. Dehydration had made me ripped beyond belief - I would have looked great if it weren't for my apparent inability to mask the look of pain on my face. It also became evident that there were several oddly placed bruises, what looks like hickies on my right bicep, and some rather curious bite marks on my left butt cheek.

Now it may sound like I'm complaining, but I rather love to play my little game of hangover Clue. Way better than that Sudoku shit, and not nearly as pompous as crossword puzzles. But probably only slightly better than a naughty word find. Say what you will, but searching for words like "anus" and "blumpkin" will always make me giggle.

While it is arguably more efficient to start at the last known memory, I prefer to start at the earliest one. I find that the process is almost as fun as the answer...like an orgasm. Unless you're a female, starting with the orgasm and then doing all the necessary work would just be painful and lead to soreness and unwanted swelling. I mean, I would, and I have done it, but only out of sheer pride and embarrassment. It was just sheer anger that kept me hard. I call it my anger-wood. But I digress.

The 8th Street one day fair is undoubtedly the best time you can have in the Lehigh Valley on that one day. No lie. What looks like your average house party is actually a carnival of awesome goodness. There's a dunk tank, a cotton candy machine, amazing food, live music, a 50/50 raffle, and a shit ton of alcohol - all FREE thanks to the generosity of the house owners Billy Sommers, Ben Steager, and Jim Michel. It is a million times better than Musikfest, or what I now refer to as Jail Bait Fest. It also helps that everyone there is generally a good time to begin with. I love catching up with old friends, and obviously meeting new ones. And seriously, the production value as far as house parties go is amazing.

I started off nice and easy, saying hi to familiar faces, drinking some good ol' American pilsners and lagers and chowing down on a few side dishes. I was looking forward to seeing Graham. Yes, that's him. And yes, he's that awesome. He has this amazing talent of saying hello while simultaneously reminding me I'm asian.

Graham: "Whattup Nintendo?"
Me: "Ya know, just keepin' it slanted."

I also met his new girlfriend, who interestingly enough met him because of the pictures I took. Yes, those pictures. And she's kinda hot. She's 24 but looks like she's 16. I know, I gave him a high five. Now the story of how they "found" each other was a little mind baffling at first. Apparently the girl was searching for a friend of hers on Myspace...and Graham's picture came up which led her to view his other photos...which led her to the ones I took of him. So what does she do? She messages him to hang out - and now they are most likely mashing their private parts together this very moment. How do I know this, because that's what I'd be doing. I'm happy for my friend Graham. I'm never one to hate on a friend enjoying some trim...especially trim that's legal but looks like it isn't. But what the flying fuck am I doing wrong? Where is my 20 something year old play thing that looks like she's 16? I'd like to think I have a modicum of talents, I'm pretty funny, I'm intelligent when I want to be, and I look awesome naked. Fuck it. I'm eating another cookie.

But in all seriousness I had a blast. And I need to thank everyone who was responsible for that party. And Jackie was even nice enough to sew a hole in my pants while I waited in the other room in my socks and underwear. I mean really, how many of you can say you had that kind of service at a party? It was all good, I was drinking, I was eating, I was laughing, I was being a mature young adult. And then I was touched by awesomeness.

What is awesomeness? Awesomeness is a clear liquid, also known as grain alcohol...straight up blithering drunk in a bottle. The kind of alcohol that causes blindness, and at the very least blackouts. I've learned to stay away from jello shots...because we all know how I get when I start taking jello shots. Clothes get removed, girls get touched, songs get sung - on second thought I should start taking jello shots again. Anyways, last night I failed to realize that the shots they were passing around was just the pure paint ripping, esophagus burning, eye watering, ball hair growing, grain alcohol that was normally used in the jello shots of lore.

Clearly, "awesomeness" is not for everyone. At least not in large quantities, especially not taken in rapid succession. Being touched by awesomeness renders one helpless against making a complete fool of oneself while talking about perfectly aged trim, loving on a friend's divorced mother, and waking up with strange bruises, bites, and facial swelling.

But that's what the 8th Street Fair is all about - awesomeness.