Delurk Is A Fun Word To Say Out Loud January 11, 2008

Last night saw me get wasted accidentally.
 
(The title of this post demonstrates where my brain currently registers on the Intelligence Scale.)
 
I considered more creative ways to begin this post.
 
Observe.
 
Possible Introduction #1. My mouth tastes like ketchup right now. Ketchup and stale beer. Ketchup, because last night’s dinner was The Legendary Stilton Burger and a mountain of french fries. Stale beer, because I just returned from throwing up in the office bathroom.
 
Possible Introduction #2. Sometimes my mother would hear a thud in the mornings while I was in high school. She’d race upstairs and pound on the door to the hallway bathroom and ask if I was all right. If I took too long to answer, she knew to assume that I had most likely fallen asleep in the shower. While I am happy I no longer must routinely wake up at 6:00 a.m. and narcolepticly fall asleep while showering, this morning also saw a thud in the shower. The thud of my naked ass plopping onto the shower floor. The mental willpower to stand upright in a slippery environment was apparently beyond my hungover self’s capacity.
 
Possible Introduction #3. Back in high school, I won Best Dressed Senior (Thanks, Abercrombie & Fitch and dELiA*s), pissing off Emily Jackson (who had worn different colored flip flops for an entire month in her attempt to sway the votes and would have needed to thank Old Navy were she to have won), and had my picture taken for the high school yearbook. Fast foward to the last two years and my office, a highly reputable firm that demands business professional dress every day. Were awards given out around here (Ed. note: Best. Idea. Ever?), I’d most likely win The Reason A New Dress Code Policy Was Established For Every Employee To Sign In July 2007. And on picture day, I would have quite a few outfits to choose from: Secretly stolen man pants; a New Years Eve dress turned into a skirt; a wrap skirt turned into a top; co-worker’s clothes changed into the morning before our office holiday party; or, after today? Black stretch pants paired with a cyan J. Crew boatneck tshirt purchased in high school (Ed. note: But really, does anything change about J. Crew’s clothing other than what amount they decide to set their unwarranted overpricing?) and bright orange and yellow Sauconys that I’ve been told remind people of McDonald’s.
 
Possible Introduction #4. Sometimes I forget that the nickname Thirsty Thursday needn’t be interpreted as a command. 
 
Possible Introduction #5. A quip about how it seems like a great injustice that brushing your teeth should lead to gag reflexes that make you slightly throw up in your mouth.
 

My hangover can’t manage creativity. It wants to eat McDonald’s Hash Browns and sleep in a pile of down comforters. It yells for Water!! and ADVIL PLEASE. 

 
So why - rather than slowly die in my darkened office while I wait for this too to pass – am I blogging. 
 
Due to the lovely Jamie who writes over at Oh! How Lovely, I’ve learned that it is DeLurking Week. The details escape me, but I have discovered that delurk is a fun word to say out loud. This, apparently, is enough reason for my hungover brain to get involved.
 
My head won’t move beyond a 45 degree angle from my neck. And in an odd variation of this classic “I’m hungover at work and trying very hard to sit upright when all I want to do is nap underneath my desk” pose, my head also insists on being cocked to the side in a 45 degree angle from my neck. I hope my words are helpful enough for you to picture what an idiot I look like this morning.
 
Thanks to the downward direction my head is pointed, I just noticed a faint stain on the front of my shirt.
 
Incredible.
 
The unfair – yes, unfair - thing about all this is that last night began with the best of innocent intentions. Which is rarely ever the case. Let’s relieve work stress at Goose Island, my boyfriend and I agreed. A nice relaxed dinner and maybe a beer, we proposed. But his co-worker happened to be there. We got caught up with pursuing our MBAs (Masters of Beer Appreciation). And the rest, as they say, is now flushed down the toilet history.
 
But I digress.
 
The summer before my freshman year of college, my university sent cards to the homes of incoming freshman that needed to be filled out with some basic information. It was a card I never saw because my mother filled mine out. Freshman year began and yearbook-style books listing all freshman with their photos and their “basic information” - Hometowns, High schools and Interests – were distributed. Others had Music or Ice cream or Politics or Film displayed by their names. And mine had People next to it. Which is how I learned that the card sent earlier that summer had displayed a list of interests to check, and my mother had selected People as my interest.
 
People. Like you.
 
So say hi today. Introduce yourself. Let me learn who you are. And rest assured that should you be a person, my mother thinks I will be interested.
 
Comment on which Possible Introduction up there you liked the most (or, similarly, hated the least). Tell me to never ever please oh ever write in a fucking hungover state again. Share your favorite sexual position and I’ll tell you the public place I have done it. Ask a question and I will answer. Whisper something about you and trust that I’ll remember. Or trust that I won’t remember if you’d prefer that. 
 
The possibilities are endless.
 
Especially if your brain is capable of thoughts beyond how fun a word delurk is to say out loud.