Affirmation
Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 9, 2002
- Posts
- 47
I’m going to try to describe my headache to you.
It’s not easy, writing about pain. It’s a bit like trying to describe a piece of music-–the only thing you can do, as anyone who’s ever read a review in NME will testify, is to throw as many adjectives into a sentence as possible and hope that at least one of them strikes a chord with the reader (sorry about the bad pun – my head is bleeding over the keyboard).
And now I’m about to attempt this, I feel slightly self-conscious; I’m reminded of all those pointless, stupid exercises in ‘creative writing’ that my idiotic English teachers used to throw at me on a Monday morning, just to see if I could actually write something-- anything-- without using the word ‘fuck’.
My head feels like... My brain feels like...Like a de-militarised zone; like an exploding star; like London’s nervous breakdown; like mustard gas poisoning; like a vampire in sunlight; a William Burroughs novel; Vietnam.
My head is a Millennium Problem. My head is like uncomfortable sex. It’s like a bad dream that won’t go away. My head is calling Houston to say it has a problem. My head is like a guest at a party, sat in the kitchen, sobbing over a woman. My head is holding its head. My head, oh my fucking HEAD!!!
What, then, is the cause of this head thing? Why does my head hate me so? Alcohol must surely play a part. I had, after all, consumed rather a lot of it. But not that much.
The hangover that kicked the shit out of me this morning was a bad one, I’ll admit. It was bad. But I’ve had worse. I’ve had much worse. My chemical memory has run a comparison check, and decided that this morning's hangover rates about average on the Richter scale. Alcohol, therefore, cannot be the sole cause of the riot in my cranium. Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour? Perhaps I’m genuinely ill? Terminally ill? Jesus, that’s something I’d rather not think about.
So I’m going to to do just about the only thing I possibly can do to make me feel a bit better about the science-fiction agony in my neural centre. I’m going to telephone a woman.
I'm going to whinge like a baby to her for an hour or so, until she takes pity on me and comes round.
Then, I'm hoping she will sit on my bed, and lean close to me, whispering loving words of comfort while she soothes my tender brow with her delicate hands.
I’m pretty certain that as soon as she kisses me, I’ll promptly forget all about this trifling little headache, and my hangover will promptly vanish... with a bang.
--Affirmation
It’s not easy, writing about pain. It’s a bit like trying to describe a piece of music-–the only thing you can do, as anyone who’s ever read a review in NME will testify, is to throw as many adjectives into a sentence as possible and hope that at least one of them strikes a chord with the reader (sorry about the bad pun – my head is bleeding over the keyboard).
And now I’m about to attempt this, I feel slightly self-conscious; I’m reminded of all those pointless, stupid exercises in ‘creative writing’ that my idiotic English teachers used to throw at me on a Monday morning, just to see if I could actually write something-- anything-- without using the word ‘fuck’.
My head feels like... My brain feels like...Like a de-militarised zone; like an exploding star; like London’s nervous breakdown; like mustard gas poisoning; like a vampire in sunlight; a William Burroughs novel; Vietnam.
My head is a Millennium Problem. My head is like uncomfortable sex. It’s like a bad dream that won’t go away. My head is calling Houston to say it has a problem. My head is like a guest at a party, sat in the kitchen, sobbing over a woman. My head is holding its head. My head, oh my fucking HEAD!!!
What, then, is the cause of this head thing? Why does my head hate me so? Alcohol must surely play a part. I had, after all, consumed rather a lot of it. But not that much.
The hangover that kicked the shit out of me this morning was a bad one, I’ll admit. It was bad. But I’ve had worse. I’ve had much worse. My chemical memory has run a comparison check, and decided that this morning's hangover rates about average on the Richter scale. Alcohol, therefore, cannot be the sole cause of the riot in my cranium. Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour? Perhaps I’m genuinely ill? Terminally ill? Jesus, that’s something I’d rather not think about.
So I’m going to to do just about the only thing I possibly can do to make me feel a bit better about the science-fiction agony in my neural centre. I’m going to telephone a woman.
I'm going to whinge like a baby to her for an hour or so, until she takes pity on me and comes round.
Then, I'm hoping she will sit on my bed, and lean close to me, whispering loving words of comfort while she soothes my tender brow with her delicate hands.
I’m pretty certain that as soon as she kisses me, I’ll promptly forget all about this trifling little headache, and my hangover will promptly vanish... with a bang.
--Affirmation
