Blackout.

Where am I? Darkness filled the room with anxiety. Ok, how did I get here? Where is here? I was drinking, at a bar, with my girlfriend and our friends, and we were... drinking. Why are my pants around my ankles and the floor under me wet with what feels like gravy? Waking up after blacking out is creepy, but waking up NAKED after blacking out is hair-raising. I was embarrassed to be in the same room as myself. Did anyone see my balls or something? I have fucked up now. The “gravy” smelled like soured beer and had spongy particles in it. I drunkenly reach out to feel around. I am in a small humid room with towels on the wall. I swing around and slam a piss-drunk arm into a cold hard surface. There is condensation on what feels like a toilet. Ok, I am in a bathroom, my girlfriend’s bathroom. This room is a 7 Ft by 7 Ft piss closet. I have been lying on the floor in the fetal position long enough for my vomit to crust over. Panic soaks my body to the bones. What did I do to get here? Am I hurt? STAND UP! I grab for the wall to pick my self off the floor. My ankles are twisted in my pants and my feet feel the pricks of a thousand dull needles, I have been here for a while; I slip and fall to the floor taking the towels down with me. THUMP, THUMP. Heavy hard objects grind into my ribs. I reach up again and discover a light switch. I turn the lights. I see bursts of color because my eyes are pasted shut from my dehydrated contacts. My head clears, my vision sharpens and I realize I have torn the towel rack off of the wall. I feel waxed. I have vomited on my self and I smell of stale beer and chicken wings. What I am going to describe is my best guess at what happened, please don’t hold me to this. As I mopped up the vomit with the bathroom towels from the crushed towel rack, I realize, I passed out on the fucking commode. I fucking passed out on the fucking shitter, crashed to the floor and I don’t even remember being there to laugh about it. If I don’t laugh I know my future wife and roommates won’t, so someone better appreciate the absurdity of the situation. After mopping the floor with whoopty-doo decorative hand towels I decided it was time to shower. I plopped my bare ass down on the seat that betrayed me, drunkenly kicked off the rest of my pants and threw the shirt off my back. The shower was a 3 Ft x 4 Ft area similar to the size of a coffin. There was only two handles, one cold, one hot. I turned the simultaneously and was slammed with a blast of cold. The shock of the frigid water jolted me and I about fell again. The hot water trickled in and warmed my hosing off. After I washed away the slimy vomit and felt a bit refreshed the headache began to creep into its spot over my left eye. Luckily, there was a bath towel hanging on the shower door. I wiped down and wrapped the towel around my wet waist. It was now time to find my girlfriend, find some clothes and dump the soiled whoopty-doo decorative towels. For the first time I opened the door to the outside world. I was leaving the room that held my humiliation, and my slight self amusement. The air was cold and I heard muffled snores. I scampered to my girlfriend’s room and was promptly greeted. “Did you get sick”, she asked.
“Yes, do you have any extra shorts”? I replied.
“WHY?!” she snapped.
“I am naked” I said.
“Where are you clothes?” she growled.
“Wet” I said.
“The shorts you left here a few days ago are over on the rack” she offered. “And you sleeping in the floor” she added.
Surprise.

Hangovers.

The hangovers he got from drinking could kill elephants. A 24 pack of beer has a tendency to shrink the brain, dilute the vitamins and disturb electrolytes. His body told him this. He knew when the hangovers were coming because he would keep drinking after the hiccups started. Each spasm would jar his insides and yank his throat from his neck. He held his breath and prayed for relief after each jolt. There was no calm insight. AHHH! Get a drink, gulp a beer. CLICK! It is morning. His head feels like he has literally cracked his skull over the left eye. His body is hot inside and the thirst is unbearable, but we must not move just yet. Shhhh. Sway your foot rhythmically on the edge of the bed and find the cool spot on the pillow. Stop. Don’t think about last night yet, or how we got to the bed. We will know soon enough. Ignore the nausea. Wait. Ok, go vomit. He runs from the hot bed to the cold bathroom. He falls to his knees in front of the throne. He can feel his throat tense as his stomach contracts with each heave. He can feel the slime of the toilet rug in his clenched fists; he can smell the urine on the toilet seat. He thinks of all the times he shot shit into the toilet that was now accepting his liver bile. Then the cool calm of the soothing moment after vomiting gently breezes over his body. He breaks into a relaxing cold sweat. For a few moments he feels relief and the cling of his sweat drenched t-shirt and boxers. SWISH… The sharp sting of the headache snaps back over his left eye. A flash of pain settles into his eye socket. He just wants to lie on the urine misted bathroom floor. We won’t do that though. Through the nausea and migraine sting he craves fruit, water, juice and vitamins. The thought of coffee strengthens the nausea. Coffee would be an instinctively horrible idea. He picks himself off of the floor and wobbles to the kitchen holding the wall with one hand and rubbing his left eye with the other. He swings open the refrigerator door and finds a cold cherry coke. The clink of condiment bottles jack hammer through the bone of his left temple. He watches his hand swipe the can of cold cherry coke and crack it open through one blurry eye. DAMN! He forgot to take out his contacts. The blur would last all day. GULP, GULP, GULP…DART back to the toilet. The wave of nausea is too much to will away. It is time to retch again. He settles down closely in front of the foul smelling bowl. The heaves hurt. His body doesn’t want to let go but his stomach and stinging eye socket say “Let Her RIP”! Five dry heaves slam through his throat each hurting more than the last. The soda fizz tickles his sinuses and all he can smell is cherry, all he can taste is bitter green liver bile. The amazing post nausea wave breezes by again. Quick, march to the kitchen, drink the rest of the coke and eat some mandarin oranges! He gulps the cherry coke and feels the fizz burn his tender throat. Through the blurry eye he watches his hands pull the pop-top off the can of Kroger brand mandarin oranges. He picks a slice of orange the way a toddler eats Cheerios off of a high chair tray. One by one he lets each sweet orange slice slide down his throat. Each piece soothes the tender tissue in his chest. The citric acid cleans his taste buds. For a few seconds he feels, ok, good, balanced. It is time to lie down again. The nausea will be back. We have to be ready. Sleep comes over him. He knows this because his feels floaty, light, peaceful. Maybe we can get Subway to eat when the nausea is gone for good.