This article originally appeared on VICE UK.
Christmas is over and I, for one, cannot wait to experience the infamous "hunger" again. Right now I’m still operating at a base level of fullness which means anything that goes in—any bite of sandwich or gulp of smoothie—will spend the next hour threatening to lurch from the back of my throat and into my mouth. Digestion? I hardly knew her.
It was fine before when all anyone had to do was recline like a pregnant monarch, chain-watching old episodes of Gavin & Stacey and inching slowly toward gout. Now we have to do things, be people. Open emails and comprehend them and all that stuff. It’s a challenge at the best of times, but trying to jumpstart your brain after more than two days off in a row requires the kind of discipline that went out the window with homeownership. It can't be done. Your mind is gone now—somewhere else, somewhere better, like the family dog having found a solitary space in which to die. This sluggish behavior is precisely why the Tories [conservative party] won’t let us have a three-day weekend and, though I'm all for it personally, I can sort of see why.
The end of December is lauded as a time of rest and rejuvenation, but how can that be when it is also a time of having a lager for breakfast and getting the shits? What becomes of us all as the magical delirium of Christmas wears off and we find ourselves, dazed and rotund, staring down the barrel of continued winter? How does one return to this archaic way of living where you have to have a job and eat fruit? How does one adjust to this increasingly unfavorable reality?
Some potential solutions:
Masturbate
I know this is my answer to everything, but I really have yet to find a problem besides "war" that it can’t solve, and even then I feel like if certain angry men who shall remain nameless got their nut more frequently, we wouldn’t be in the mess we are today.
Riddle me this: Over Christmas I got two UTIs and couldn’t sleep (highly uncharacteristic) because the walls in my parents' house are paper thin and my mother has ears like a greater wax moth. The minute I arrived back in my own home I busted one out and have been absolutely fine since. Coincidence, because I’ve spent two weeks drunk, overeating, and immobile, and not doing that has proven beneficial to my general wellbeing, or: the science of the nut? You tell me. At this rate, I predict to be back on form by Monday. I will quite simply rub my way to the top of my game, and I challenge you to do the same. No Nut November is over—welcome to Jack Off January.
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