July 1, 2001

It’s Sunday and I still feel rather gross and ill and cloudy.  But I congratulate my body on its ability to keep me from killing myself and poisoning my body into a frat party fatality.

Once higher-level thinking returned, in its limited capacity, I realized that I’d left Declan alone and never said goodnight to him.  He probably collected my drunk ass, laughed at me for not being able to hold my liquor, and then put me to bed.  There is nothing worse than being the only one totally fucked up.  Luckily, in that weird relative sense, he chugged the rest of his whiskey when I went to the bathroom and immediately went to vomit in the other one.  So I wasn’t alone!

Neither of us were all that tidy in our illness, much to the chagrin of Keira, who came in at 3AM or so to find me wedged in one bathroom hiccupping and yakking and vomit all over the other.  She brushed her teeth in the kitchen.

Everyone says this several times in their life, but that doesn’t make it any less true and woeful – I will never do that again.  Just the residual smell in the living room turned my stomach and that smell as it seeped out of my pores in place of the sweat it ejected in my urine the night before was a constant, awful reminder that man is not meant to drink a bottle of whiskey in one sitting.

 

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