"When Saturday night kicks your ass, pick you face up off the floor, slap it back on and TRY AGAIN." - Me
Sure, there comes a time in every man's life when enough dangerously good times get packed into a single weekend, and in a very special way you are left crippled, curled-up, half conscious and with little faculty left, let alone reason. Some may shy away from these super-weekends, turn their backs, cowardly, and pray for some solace or retribution. This is wrong. The appropriate response is to grab on to whatever is hanging down and swing.
This weekend was one of those times. I wrung myself through one Saint Paddy's show and a series of birthday parties. All weekend I couldn't get back to neutral - my tally just wouldn't zero out. I went into Thursday at about a solid negative five, then continued in a downward spiral until Sunday morning, when I was sitting in a booth at a diner, twitching like a creep and in some deep state of mental shock and emotional exhaustion, mumbling these things about not being able to get back to neutral, not being able to zero out, to a mostly confused and concerned group. All of my blood had gone bad, spoiled, and my soul had been wrung out.
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