Sometimes when I drink too much during a night of clubbing, I end up dancing like someone who can afford the luxury.  Now I've been told that I'm not some goof, swinging and flailing and obnoxiously touching other people who don't want to dance with me, but I find this hard to believe.  Every morning I wake up after one of these tiradous binges, I can't move.  It takes me twenty minutes to get full use of my arms.  'SNAP SNAP' go the wrists, the elbows have to 'POP' though.  Fingers don't matter first thing in the morning, not until I have something finger-y to do.  Shoulders are a different matter, those sound like they're shattering when I struggle to turn my whole body because I tend to not have full swivel action of my spine and hips for a good hour.  Kind of like an echoing 'BOOM' that resonates through my chest cavity.  I get my swiveling back and all cleared up when I finally sit forward and hear every vertebrae crack, from bottom to top.  'POP' goes the pelvis; 'SNAP-CRACK-CRACK-POP-SNAP' sound the lumbars; and yet I still have 19 more and haven't even gotten the Rice Krispies out of the pantry.  Excruciating sounds reverberate through my torso, and I still haven't even stood up yet.  It's kind of like hearing a moving van carrying all of your fragile belongings come to a screeching halt; crashes and cracks and breaks and snaps and rips and bangs.  These are the sounds of my mornings.  This is my ritual.