The Morning After, or, The Worst Hangover I Ever Had

I thought I was going to die yesterday. I mean I really, seriously didn’t think I was going to make it. I told Laura she could have all of my stuff.

The night before, we had attended what at first seemed like it was going to be an unfortunate party. It was located in some warehouse space in Williamsburg, and while this sort of thing is indeed very cool these days, the place was eerily strange to reach. After storming back out after a hopeless attempt to locate cups for me and my eager pals, I found we were wandering in vain through seemingly endless blocks of dark warehouses in search of a deli. Does a deli even sell plastic party cups? I can’t say I’ve ever found the case to be yes, but at this point I was desperate. In the end, we wound up going back inside and finally finding the dude who was selling tiny, tiny cups for five dollars. I think I was back in the beer line every ten minutes for the rest of the night. Stories abound concerning just what went on during the remainder of the evening, but I can assure you I remember not a thing. Somewhere in there I managed to lose my umbrella, draw a hideous “tattoo” all over myself with a sharpie, defend Laura’s honor when a guy made “sex motions” in her direction, and find my umbrella again. Then, on the way to the subway home, I tried to join a group of rowdy construction workers and my pals had to drag me away, much to the gentlemen’s dismay.

I woke up Sunday morning, although extremely late in the afternoon, feelin’ just fine. “Success!,” I thought to myself, as I always do when the day begins and I’ve managed to have enjoyed a night of drinking with no unfortunate head pounding or nausea. I would soon learn.

We began the day, er, early evening with a delicious delivered omelet and the promise of the gangster film classic Carlito’s Way. While I don’t normally enjoy movies that are serious, long, or about gangsters, as I politely let Laura know, she assured me that this was a fine film. Last time I let her make a Nexflix selection without my approval.

Seconds into this “film” I realized that it would not be a whimsical comedy, or even the sometimes acceptable “dramedy.” I appreciated the story’s serious and poignant subject matter, but felt the material was ill-presented though quick and rather odd character introductions. Everyone, for some reason, seemed to contain an unsettling amount of “rambling fool” that took away significantly from the credibility of each (in my mind) and made me yell aloud at the TV after every scene “What in the world are they talking about?” Sometimes, I don’t understand films.

I could not make it through the entire picture. This, I guess, was actually ok, because it had begun with one of those weird sequences where they tell you what happens in the end right off the bat. I excused myself, put on a delicious pot of coffee, and settled down into my various important undertakings that I may or may not have waiting for me each day. Then the death came a knockin.’

I started to feel like I was developing a bit of a headache. I started to feel like maybe I was a little nauseous. For the next two, maybe three hours, I was in a place I have never been before. Let me precede this description by saying that I’ve had myself some hangovers. Hangovers large or slight, hangovers wacky, and certainly hangovers painful. But this particular hangover proved itself to be so severe, that at some point during “the dark time” that I spent sprawled in various positions on my unmade bed, staggering to the restroom, or shuffling slowly around the apartment moaning softly, I had this thought, a thought that I don’t even want to admit was ever present anywhere in my mind “Maybe I shouldn’t drink so much anymore.” The headache was the most pounding and painful I have ever experienced, and the mighty vomit was certainly disgusting and, well, plentiful. It hurt to breathe.

Then, magically, as if liquor remembered all the wonderful times we had shared together, I started to feel better. Much better. In fact, I made a full recovery and was able to spend the rest of the evening in revelry with my pals, my roomies, staying up all night long in celebration of the great past laborers of this nation. Liquor knew it couldn’t lose me, such a valuable patron of its offerings. I even considered enjoying a fine alcoholic beverage that same evening, but decided not to test my luck. I survived, and Liz and her beer-soaked ways will carry on as usual. I wouldn’t want to disappoint my fans.