While I must admit that my writing process at this time is clearly colored by the nausea, bloating, and mild lingering headache addling the brain, so moving is the feeling, that I feel compelled to share with you, my friends, my Fantastic Hangover Adventure: a two day spectacle resulting from a mildly epic Saturday night of drunken, rude carousing.
It began this morning, or perhaps more accurately, last night as something of a foreboding feeling - distinctly marked by my frequent consumption of water and a general malaise contributing to my inability to do anything productive throughout the day save resisting the siren call of the Petrarchian Cough. After getting into something of the usual tiff with a significant other over the usual topic of Yohoho Butt Pirates, I resisted the usual urge for a late night date Mr. Daniels (one good hangover does not deserve another) and chose to wander aimlessly for an hour or so in the darkened house playing a game of Catsweeper (akin to the Windows Classic game of Minesweeper, with the minor substitution of "avoiding stepping on mines" with "avoiding stepping on my black kitten") before passing out.
Unfortunately, much like Lowthar the Wiseman in the Viking legend of Og the Impaired, I "was not to awaken in my bed with a hot pad on my head." Some hours later, my "rest was disturbed by the distinct cold feeling of [my kitten's] soilage atop my greasy comb-over." Well, more specifically, my rest was disturbed by my kitten sneezing on me multiple times In The Face. Please allow me at this time to describe in unecessary detail the texture of Kitty Snot: firstly, it is dreadfully and unnaturally cold (presumably, due to the high velocities it achieves in such a short distance between origination and impact), it is a light mist of viscous substance with astoundingly even coverage (proof once again that my kitten's byproducts are of such commercial value that they should can it and market it as an aerosol substitute), and lastly, it comes in a six-pack. The only byproduct worse than her Kitty Snot has got to be her Kitty Gas.
Suffice to say, upon being rudely awakened by my kitten's decision to use me as a convenient tissue substitute, I became fully aware of my disastrously hung over state. While this alone should have been enough foreshadowing for things to come, I figure that the epic adventure warrants further detailing.
Upon my arrival at work today, I noticed that the driveway was entirely blocked up with not one, but two enormous tour buses. As I entered the building, I was treated to a mass exodus of smiling engineers, veritably and slowly stampeding out of the door like so many rats and roaches bailing ship and I was overcome with a momentary distress that I had accidentally come to work with a massive hangover on some kind of optional day. However, after making several inquiries and noticing that the aforementioned smiling engineers were not from my work group, I discovered that apparently today the entire Consumer division of iRobot was being treated to a "Mandatory Fun Day," which is apparently when their boss trucks them off to an undisclosed fun location where they are obligated to have Fun. As if the injustice of this alone wasn't enough in and of itself, shortly upon arriving at my desk I received a phone call which went something very much like this:
*ring ring*
Carsten: Hello? Hey Kim, where are ya?
Kim: I'm at my desk.
Carsten: Which bus are you on?
Kim: I'm riding the "at my desk" bus because I work in G&I.
Carsten: Oh, so you're not coming?
Kim: No, because I work in G&I.
Carsten: Oh, so it's a Consumer thing only?
Kim: Yup, that's why it's called Consumer Mandatory Fun Day. Have Fun.
Carsten: Yup, okay. Bye.
*click*
I asked my boss whether G&I gets a fun day, but apparently we don't because if we got all touchy-feely like the Consumer division, we won't make good robots for the military. I suppose in a way he's right, as the Tickle-Me-Packbot/Explosive Ordinance Disposal would just be an atrocity (though only marginally moreso than the bioterrorism Cheesebot that resulted from my eating Doritos while running battery failover testing).
Since that exchange, my morning has opened up with a series of assaults on my olfactory senses, beginning with the Expired tabouli in the public fridge in which I had the misfortune of opening in order to procure creamer for my tea. While the blast zone for that particular aroma mortar was something to behold, that had nothing on the smorgasbord of odors the restroom to which I promptly fled had in store for me. Although it was clear that a previous occupant had attempted to be courteous in leaving behind a pleasantly scented room by liberally applying the Linen Fresh disinfectant spray, the smell itself could best be described as "a dump in the dryer" and it put the fear of [the porcelain] god into me. At this point it should be noted that the bathrooms at my office are usually exceptionally clean-smelling, this being the one day the cleaning staff and restroom patrons decided to take exception, much to my retching agony.
Returning from my harrowing trip to the kitchen and restroom, I was met with the latest and by far most unpleasant odor the office could possibly have to offer.
For you see, while my supervisor is away getting married, it is my job to feed and care for Osama, the G&I pet snake (look, I wanted to name him Solid, but clearly my coworkers had other things besides video games on their minds). Now, you must understand my horror and chagrin upon finding that the wonderful woman from purchasing had come by while I was out bobbing for apples in the toilet, and had brought a bag of feeder fish and set them beside Osama's tank as a favor to me after I had mentioned to her that I had no car with which to drive to Petco. Rolling up my sleeves and clutching to my guts for dear life, I opened the snake tank and was promptly subjected to the stink equivalent of a fortified late vintage port - a hearty bouquet of humid stale air with undertones of moistened snake shit and old moist fish pieces and byproducts, all aged in wood shavings and bottled in a glass aquarium. One might say Osama keeps his living quarters somewhat smelly.
Of course, being the wine connosseiur that I am, I could not merely settle with enjoying the ripe, rich odor - oh no, I had to savor the flavor and feel upon my skin, as the nice woman from purchasing and I attempted to empty the wobbly cheap imitation tupperware water container that previously held Osama's last meal, splashing the particulate-ridden water all over the both of us in a dirty snakewater martini.
Suffice to say, the attempt to ignore the nausea-agitating odors with my now befouled hands and clothes became somewhat futile, and I realized that the only way to combat a strong smell would be with a stronger but less offensive smell. Thus, I proceeded to microwave myself an early lunch of instant Spring Onion noodle soup, only to pull open the lid with such a snap that it resulted in a splash of pungent spring onion, right In The Face. And thusly, for the rest of the day, I will reek of dirty snake martini and spring onion soup, popping Advil and hoping that the War of the Smells will eventually result in a sort of mutual destruction and surrender without involving any more visits to the porcelain throne on my behalf.
Further bulletins as events warrant.
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