Toxic Withdrawal Non-Question of the Day

She dumped you for another man---nay, another woman, and not just any woman, but Martha Stewart. You got laid off--nay, you were fired for secretly buying Saved By the Bell memorabilia with the company credit card. Boy were they pissed when it turned out that those Buddy Bands were knockoffs. You came home to find that your dog shat on your only pair of Jordans--nay, your only pair of contacts. Now you only see shit. You opened your mail to learn that you're being evicted--nay, an archeological team has discovered your home is built over sacred Navajo burial ground and that ghosts have been scratching themselves with your toothbrush while you sleep. This just isn't your day--nay, it just hasn't been your decade.

Who are the only friends you turn to? The 3 J's of drowned sorrows: Johhny Walker, Jack Daniels, and Justin Timberlake of course (you like to bring sexy back while you drink). The ensuing amount of debauchery is enough to sink a small island in the Pacific; you're drinking a flood and crying a river.

You awake the next morning to the jackhammering chirps of small birds while the sun is bitch-smacking you worse than Slickback...ahem, excuse me, A Pimp Named Slickback. You are lying on the curb outside of your building with your blog and twitters hanging out while the joggers hop over you like you're mere dog shit.

And then it hits you. That incessant pulsation in your abdomen, the uncontrollable sweat dripping down your neck, the ubelievable pounding in your head as if your brain is trying to escape that sinking ship...here it comes...it's in your throat...you can't suppress it...you just gotta...PROJECTILE VOMIT ALL OVER THE STREET!!! And you're still wretching on the curb. You don't even feel relieved. You're actually quite dizzy right now and all you can smell is the hard-boiled egg you had for breakfast two days ago.

You, sir, are hung-over. That of course is very different from being over-hung. Only animals in the horse family are over-hung. And hang-over is also not like a fly-over modified. It's not like you're holding onto a rope strapped to a plane flying across the Garden State. Nor is it like a layover (which rarely involves getting laid) or a sleepover (which sometimes is the result of getting laid). No, instead, you're "hanging" your body over a toilet, a bathtub, a balcony, expunging last night's liquid courage out your face-hole until your eyes are bloodshot and you pass out.

You also have a rain cloud of misery "hanging over" your head for the rest of day because you, sir, feel worse than Charlie Brown. That cloud is following you like a jealous ex and pouring acid drops of hurtin' all over your dome. It ain't leaving until you get rid of the toxins still "hanging" out in your body and "over"-staying their welcome. You raid the fridge for gatorade and leftover pepperoni pizza. You sandwich three slices together and dip them into the neon blue sea of electrolytes. You throw it down your mouth and swallow like a Hunt's Point hooker. Before the Itis kicks in, you stumble to your bed--nay, you crawl on your stomach while having flashbacks of 'Nam (i.e. last night's car bombs with your Viet friend Phoek). Now, as you lay there nestled in Egyptian cotton, with half your body "hanging over" the edge, your heavy eyelids "hanging over" your vision balls, you remember that once upon time, week in and week out, you used to do this...for fun.