getting old

Long gone are the days when my roommate and I would load a 30-pack of Beast in our backpacks and head out for an evening. Nary an evening do I find my lips on tap, feet in the air doing keg stands while an enthusiastic crowd of binge drinkers counts the number of seconds I guzzle foamy beer. The days of beer bongs and beer pong are, for the most part, a thing of the past. My friends don't come over to play asshole anymore and drinking Monopoly is merely a blink in the mind's eye.

My body just can't handle the wrath of drinking to excess anymore. It's too crushing a blow to wake-up with an overhang, knowing my plans for a sunny Saturday morning have been swindled by my after-hours indiscretions. The headaches are crippling, the queasy tummies unbearable and my brain turns to a case of space. I must be getting old.