As I'm sure you all know by now, I am an idiot. Last night, after volunteering my time umpiring some baseball (because I'm stupid) I had a few beers and decided that midnight was a reasonable time to go out (because I'm stupid). I went out, got drunker than drunk, and had to be driven home by a friend of mine. Fortunately for me, his girlfriend drove my car home so I could make it to work.
Unfortunately for me, I made it to work.
Anyway, if this hangover were a boat, it'd be the Titanic. I'm freaking useless. I mean, typing this is tough. My fingers are shaking across the keys like Michael J. Fox in a Techno club; I spent the first half of the day sleeping in the lunch room (my coworkers have come to terms with me, God love 'em); and I think a couple of my internal organs haven't checked in for work yet (my stomach, for example, is against the idea of allowing any food or beverages inside it). So don't expect this piece to be any good.
I remember the worst hangover I ever had. I was a junior in college. My girlfriend (at the time) had moved back to Europe and I was doing everything within my power to avoid thinking about her. So I drank. A lot.
One morning, I woke up with my head pounding, my bedroom spinning and vomit stains on my floor. I walked downstairs to the kitchen, poured a pitcher of ice water, and chugged it quickly. I then threw up again. And again.
I poured myself another pitcher of ice water. My roommate's dog, Chills, barked at me. I threw an ice cube at him. He caught it in his mouth and chomped it happily.
Then, I sat down on our beaten sofa. I was simultaneously shivering and sweating. I had no idea that was even humanly possible.
I put a blanket over my legs and tried to light a cigarette. My hands were shaking so bad that I had to reach a “Michael Jordan in the Playoffs” level of concentration just to get the smoke lit. Shortly after I lit it, I tried to lie down on the couch.
I missed and fell on the floor.
Now, I know some people who will tell you that dogs can't laugh. They are liars. After I fell on the floor, Chills freaking laughed at my expense. He even snorted. I'll go to my grave believing that, by the way.
After I got up, I discovered that I didn't have the coordination to get the lit cigarette to my mouth. I actually had to set it in an ashtray and pick it out of there with my lips (my hands were shaking so bad, I thought I may have developed epilepsy).
At this point, my roommate's girlfriend entered our apartment. She was taking Chills to a dog park (how sweet).
She took one look at me and said, “Oh my God! Are you okay? Do you need me to take you to the hospital? You're shaking and you're skin is almost green. Jesus, Nate. Let me get my car.”
“No,” I responded, my shaking hands spraying cigarette ash all over the apartment. “I'm? okay. Just hung over.”
“Oh,” she said, all concern melting from her face. “You need to quit drinking.”
She's probably right.