Blogspot, foul social construct!

So I wake up with a hangover. Other stuff happens (my room is covered in roach poison, purple molasses is flowing down the staircase) and then, cliche of cliches, I wake up.

...with a hangover. I'd seen Waking Life with Joe a few years ago, a movie wherein our protagonist cycles through an unusual number of dreams before coming to realize that he had died. Death, in the mind of some wacky color block animator-director, involves moving through an endless corridor of dreams. So I wonder aloud, to myself, still in bed: "Did I just die? Am I damned to involvment in horrible elevator accidents, to repeatedly lose the teeth in my lower jaw, to go on nonsensical field trips to Disneyworld with my Intro to APA studies recitation ad infinitum?" Turns out, no--as I reasoned that the likelihood of having the same hangover dream twice in a row as my first two dreamings of death was unreasonably small. Combinatorics saved my soul.

So I moved on. And since my life is defined by movies*, I thought about that scene in the first Matrix wherein Keanu Reeves falls off a skyscraper in the simulacrum. Waking up, he discovers that his nose is bleeding and our wise sage Laurence Fishburne says something to the effect of "the mind makes your imagined injuries real." (How this would vindicate all my self-pity!) Is this hangover the result of a dream of a hangover?

Well, turns out I'd gone hardcore drinking with work friends last night, a motley assortment of Irishmen, crazy people and an alcoholic brown biomedical engineer. I remember talking to one of them about tittyfucking Giada de Laurentis (jaws ahoy!). So no, as far as I can tell, I'm not cycling through progressive layers of perception. I'm just very hungover.

*
Dear Baudrillard,

Hello!

xoxo,
Byron