Good Night, Bad Morning

Last night is the most horrifically drunk I have ever been.

If you're curious, I drank:

1 pint of Fosters
2 double Sailor Jerrys and coke
4 double Jägermeisters and coke
1 double JD and coke

Is this a lot? I don't know, but it was enough for me. I think it was the JD that tipped me over the precipice from happy drunk to dangerously ill drunk. I think I had even decided I had finished on the last Jägermeister, but was handed the JD by a destructive housemate (you know who you are) and did what any man would do with a fresh drink.

Sorry to spoil the content but I am aware of my limited readership, so if vivid descriptions on the negative effects of alcohol consumption bother you, then stop reading this post now.

It wasn't until we got home that I realised how drunk and suddenly nauseous I was. I couldn't focus my eyes on anything. The classic symptons, really. Sleeping was out of the question. I went straight for the bathroom, and after a few heaves I produced a prodigious and probably poisonous flow. I looked on the evidence with admiration. My eyes, blurred with loose tears could only discern the colour. Black, laced with traces of blood. Incredible. I wanted to show my housemates, hoping to impress them, but there must have been one brain cell with the light still on that said they probably wouldn't appreciate this kind of sharing. If only that brain cell had reminded me I have a camera-phone. I decided that I would have a bath, perhaps this would sober me up? Nope, now I was wet and drunk.
Then I thought perhaps a cigarette would be sobering? Where did this come from? I don't smoke, but there seemed to be a strange drunken logic that this would help. I don't have cigarettes, and neither do my housemates, so stage two of sobering was foiled.

I decided that drinking water could probably only help, which I did inbetween vomitting. A lot of the night consisted of me trying to make a headrest out of the toilet seat. But it was no use, I didn't seem to be getting anymore sober. Everytime I returned to the lounge to watch more TV my focus was clearly as bad as it was before. I just wanted to feel better, I just wanted to stop being drunk. By 4am, I was this close - - to calling a paramedic and getting put on a drip. I had enough money for a taxi home. I had the necessary digits typed into my phone when my housemate Sean appeared, biceps gleaming, legs striking the floor like a stallion. He gathered me into his arms and tenderly kissed my forehead, giving me the strength to carry on.
OK, this last bit is an exageration. What actually happened is I told Sean I was probably going to call a paramedic, and he said, "Nah, you just need to Man-It." Although this is a less romantic image, I found a similar strength from it, and by 5am, was this possible? I was beginning to feel not so horrifically drunk. Sure, the nausea was still there. And I was becoming quite accustomed to sending my fingers to the back of my throat to feel that fleeting relief post-vomit. It was mostly water by this stage, but somehow my body was able to find chunks from deep recesses, pockets long forgotten. Chunks that probably weren't food at all.
I'm not sure what time I fell into my bed, semi-clothed. But needless to say, I missed my 9am seminar. I think there's a lesson to be learned from this, I'm not sure what though. I have to go now, I think it's time to start drinking again.