I've got lock-brain today. It's like lockjaw, but of the brainal variety.
Nothing's coming out of the cranium that should. My brain can't even control my typing fingers properly, and, when you're a writer and LIVE by the typing, this can be a dangerous and frustrating thing.
I blame recent events and maybe a little too much party party fun time at my house last night. Lock-brain usually accompanies stress and hangovers, for which the only known sure cure is water, water, greasy food, water, and water.
Back when I was on the "pro party" circuit, only Waffle House would do for those really long nights out that you just KNEW were going to result in a hangover of mammoth proportion. A 4 a.m. trip to Billy's Place (because Billy ALWAYS worked the night shift) for waffles and eggs and hash browns were quite the stomach settler, and a double dose of their hellishly awful coffee would set the purge in motion.
Cuz, you know, you're GOING to purge anyhow from all that alcohol, why not just get it the hell over with and get on with you life? That was our M.O. at the time, and it worked so well that very often we would pick right back up at 5 that night with a continuation of stupid human tricks PLUS liquor, and start the cycle all over again.
This modus operandi came back to me this morning, as I recognized the onset of the "lameass white chick celebrates a tiny bit too much and winds up with the head owie and tumbly tummy" syndrome, and thus motored my way to a McD's for some breakfastage that would give my body something to do other than chew away at its own meninges. As it would happen, I ordered 2 sausage burritos, thinking that the cheesy eggyness of it would settle my stomach and provide me with some much-needed proteins.
I had to get past the sausages first.
Did y'all know, that on close inspection, the sausage chunks in a McDonald's breakfast burrito look like the leavings of an anemic rabbit? They do. You don't really even have to inspect them that closely to see that I'm correct in this simile.
Did y'all ALSO know that the "sausage chunks" don't so much taste like sausage as they taste like something that wants to be sausage but has just hint enough of flavor to give you the idea that someday somebody might come along and spice things up enough to start MAKING sausage out of them?
Much like the pepper chunks, which were barely large enough to qualify as "specks," the pseudo-sausages could have been left OUT of the eggy cheesiness and I would have been just as happy.
Pass the salsa, baby, and call it a day.
Also? Did nothing for my stomach. Dammit.
So, I need your help. What do I do NOW to un-quease my stomach and un-ow my brain? Keep in mind that I can't go home and work, like I normally would, because right now I don't have internet access, which I need to continue to be a productive member of the working class. I have to stay at work, working and battling my own stupidity and lock-brain, until such time as I either get cured or puke. Y'all, I hatehatehate the emetic event, but I'm thinking right now it looks like a not-bad option.
Help a sistah out, won't you, and leave your suggestions in the comments.
My thanks, in advance, for your expert advice.