Hungover.

November 8th, 2010


So...
A good sign of having more than one's fill of chupitos (shots), is when one remains hungover a full 24 hours after drinking.

The Plan.
Friday Night with one of my intercambios I went out, and had a pretty good night with cheap cervezas, and more cheap cervezas. I stayed out drinking until 6 in the morning, and decided to call it an early night.
I am not, Toby Belchlike, playing on the fact that 6:00 A.M. is considered early in the morning, I am saying that going home at 6:00 A.M. is earlier than other people stop drinking here.
That was fine.
Saturday night?
Saturday night began with my good and nice friend Kalimotxo, and moved alarmingly rapidly towards chupitos.
And then it was Taquilla.
And more Taquilla.
And Jack.
Me and Jack? We aren't friends.
We have never been friends.
I am still not friends with Jack.
What can I say? Don't mix Wild Turkey and Jack. (The Joke here being that my name is Austin Nichols, the same as Wild Turkey brand Whiskey. Check it out.)
After that it was Vodka. I think.
This is about the point where my night 'browns out.'
Not quite a Black-out, but stuff fades in and out.
Sunday was spent in bed.
In bed and in the restroom.
Mostly in the bed.
Monday I woke up, and still feel not at my best.
But it's a mild sort of not at my best.
My clothes smell like smoke alcohol and regret.

Hypocrisy?
You bet.
I have been disgusted with my fellow american students who would go out and get drunk as lords here, and then tell the tales as if they were stories-of-honor.
Me? I'm embarrassed.
I can't believe I let myself get that drunk, again.
So here's a thought, no more shots.
I work so much better when I drink mixed drinks and beer.
Drinking it neat doesn't work for me, because I lose count, and that's a problem.

Spainish for the Day:

When the rain comes in small globuals, and the wind makes your umbrella (if you are debil enough to need one) completely useless, and the rain comes from all direction, the Spanish/Basque have a phrase for this.
Xiri Miri.
This is pronounced 'Shitty Mitty'
I don't think our professor understands why the class now loves this phrase.

Masks.
Not the kind you find in Venice (if you don't get lost on your way), but the kind we all have. I'm working on stripping mine away, that's the life work of an artist. So I shaved off my whispy sad little beard thing, in case I was trying to hide behind it. (I'm really bad at figuring what is a mask and what isn't, so I test everything by taking it away and seeing how I respond.)
Now I hope that this dislike of being clean-chinned isn't the response of fear of being something I am... I don't even rightly follow the logic, but I do know I think I look better with the whisker-whisps. Are they a mask? Maybe. Are they part of who I am? I like 'em. I like that there is red in em.
What does that mean?
I don't think it's significant.
I don't know.
I do know its easier to regress here, and without constant mask-challenges like DLP, Kelly, and close friends, I'm going to struggle to not revert back into a hidden holed up Weasel.
For this reason I'll keep testing waters like hats, glasses, speaking in English, speaking in Spanish, anything that feels like it could be an easy out must be tested.

Which brings me to my next thought.
I was SPO-YLED at the U of I with it's safe and encouraging environment to be honest and creative.
Here? At a business school? Not so much.
But.
But, that's no excuse.
I'm learning to either create an aura of goodwill to start my honesty and creativity from on my own, or to start my honesty and creativity without it.
Life lessons people.
While I wasn't sure what sort of artistic value this year was going to have for me, it's becoming more and more clear that I am learning to do what I need to do on my own.
Doing this with others will take some relearning when I get back stateside, but I think I'll be better off.

This weasel needs a nap.


Agur

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