Me vs. Myself

Or:
"Shawn vs. Common Sense"

Perhaps:
"By My Body Betrayed"

Here it is-me no feel good. "Oog rip Oog own head off!"

Last night turned out to be "Let's Open Up The Bartender's Guide To Random Pages and Mix Up Strange, New Shots Night." I think I drank a total of about seven or eight completely different shots, on top of my usual Wild Turkey and beer binge. Then (because in the battle against my Inner Self-destructive Child I always lose) I came home and drank several cans of Sparks Plus. Bad idea.

I woke up today feeling like I had been paid a visit by the L.G. (very inside joke-only two people are gonna get that one...) Basically, I felt awful. God awful. What better way to go to work than tired, cranky, nauseous, and still a little drunk? Hooray for me.

I couldn't bring myself to eat anything, even though I was hungry. I didn't think I would be able to actually consume anything other than liquids without erupting into a Voluminous Volcano of Vomit. So, I drank some Powerade. Then I drank some Vault, because I crave caffeine like rappers crave bling. Or something.

Then, just because I must really hate myself, I ate chicken arrabiata with penne for lunch. I didn't want chicken arrabiata with penne. I've never even had chicken arrabiata with penne before. Ever. For those of you who haven't been working in a pizzeria for fourteen years like I have (hence the Constant Drinking), and may not know the ingredients to every single Italian dish ever invented; chicken arrabiata with penne has prosciutto and sweet peas in a spicy red sauce. The key words there are Spicy Red Sauce.

Now, I don't really like spicy food. My Irish heritage may enable me to drink half a bottle of warm bourbon without a chaser, with a smile on my face, but it frowns upon spicy food. Irish people are infamous for boiling all of the flavor out of our food. In fact, I think we only eat so we can drink some more without puking.

I only ate the chicken arrabiata with penne because the kitchen screwed up, and forgot to make it without prosciutto for a Muslim customer. As you know, Muslims don't eat pork. You did know that, right? No one else wanted the chicken arrabiata with penne (yes, I know it's retarded to keep repeating "chicken arrabiata with penne," but I find it funny, and it's my blog. piss off) so my boss put it down in front of me and said "Dig in, Hendge (that's what he calls me), I don't want this to go to waste."

Being an adventurous (and stupid) fella, I proceeded to eat the...well, you know. It was pretty tasty. For the first five seconds. Then, the Spicy Red Sauce kicked in. This shit was Hot. There were big chunks of hot peppers in that sauce, and they were out to get me. I started to sweat. My stomach did a slow roll. My sphincter clenched, in anticipation of the Evil Poop it knew this meal would soon turn into. Yet, I soldiered on, and ate more of the chicken arrabiata with penne, because my boss was watching me. My boss is cheap. Real cheap. And if he saw me ditch the chicken arrabiata with penne after I had agreed to eat it, he'd be pissed. I was in no mood to deal with his shit, so I ate on.

I got about halfway through the chicken arrabiata with penne before I could go no further. Enough. I immediately had to make a delivery.

(A pizza delivery, you sick fucks. What kind of "delivery" did you think I was talking about? Poop? What's the matter with you, sicko? Who writes about pooping? Seek counseling.)

I'm not sure I've ever had a more challenging time delivering a pizza. My entire body was turning against me. Curse you, mutinous corpus! I know I am to blame, with my continuous abuse of my personage, but Holy Shit-I thought I was going to die. "You cannot petition The Lord with prayer," so it's been said, but I was a prayin' motherfucker today.

I feel better now, thanks for asking. I know I should take it easy tonight, but I'm actually drinking a can of Sparks Plus as I write this, in preparation for the Side Door gig tonight. I like to get highly caffeinated before heading out to that shithole of a bar and drinking a ton of bourbon. Then, when I come home late tonight, drunk and silly, I will most likely drink a few more Sparks.

Inner Self-destructive Child, you win again!