Two-for-one drink breakfast specials. Exponentially not a good idea. Two drinks become four becomes eight becomes a sloppy mess. Brain cells crash to their certain deaths inside a cocoon of poisonous juices while vignettes of memory fight for reason. Then, a biological hat trick occurs and sweet consciousness bursts from its rumpled chrysalis back into reality.
What the fuck happened? What's this dead body in this dumpster beside me? Am I levitating or being carried? And please, for the love of all fuckholes, can somebody please explain why these four gangbangers kicking the shit out of me are all dressed like extras from A Clockwork Orange?
Blackouts. Where the horrifying ceases to be unnatural.
At this point, amateurs are scared shitless, praying to the big fartknocker in the sky they'll never drink again if only to make the nightmare stop. Not unreasonable, given the unpleasantries, and it might even hold up for a few months, or at least until Saint Paddy's Day.
Professional alkies are born optimists, however, finding even the tiniest angstroms of hope flitting from their pickled shop of horrors event horizons. What? I'm puking up geysers of blood out of my eyeballs? Who gives a shit. The bar across the street serves Tequila poppers. Onward!
Insane snippets caught in time's blur: Dr. Seuss houses shake violently up and down from the cliffs on Diniwid Beach. Equilibrium's fucked. How is it nighttime, already? What in Mephisto's homebrew happened to today? Am I living in the past or present or replicating a previous future, where the later it gets the faster it gets late? That's it, no more drinking. Ever ...
… The whole gang's carousing at an outdoor fish house while Nathan and Hurl square off in a testosterone-induced hissy fit, chests flared out like fighting peacocks threatening to unleash their sexual prowess upon each other's mothers. The rest of us sing silly songs while watching fishing skiffs use purple glowing lanterns to lure in unsuspecting octopi. Traci pauses a hearty rendition of Squidfishing Across the Universe and holds up a vulva-shaped conch shell. "Dougie Boy." She snickers to Carrie Lee and Anna ...
… The crew ambles in fits and starts, bracing against wind gusts while scampering from the rogue tides enveloping White Beach. A formal wedding set in front of an opulent hotel. The Asian bride and groom's solemn vows are drowned out by the thumping bass from a tranny fashion show not thirty feet away. The bride's face is steadfast, determined to pull off this special occasion come Diyu or high water.
Seaspray blasts rhythmic gunshots against Boracay's iconic offshore Grotto as we make a bleary pub crawl through a palm tree-lined wind funnel, stopping to replenish our spirits at Mad Monkey, OM, Epic, Cocomangas, and Obama's grill.