The Hard Choice

OK, I'm going to write something more fitting to the younger college crowd. Never the less, it is a serious issue, which affects all disciples of Bacchus no matter their age or experience with a bottle.

I returned home to the United States last week after being gone for two months. This past Friday night was the first time I had really gotten together with a larger group of my friend for drinks and fun in quite some time. We met down at our old watering hole, which is in fact 'not' our watering hole now, but nobody had tried the place since it changed ownership. It was bought up by a woman who had been thrown out of every other bar in town, so she decided to buy one of her own. The place had been renamed "Krazy Karens". Needless to say, we were a bit hesitant. It actually wasn't half bad. The music was a bit too loud, but maybe I'm just getting older and crotchetier. Yeah, we'll go with that. But it was around 10:00PM when the ultimate killer of a good time showed up. The karaoke machine. Yes that evil little box. The eerie blue glare of its monitor screen washing over the bar, entrancing would be victims in their alcohol induced susceptibility to pick up a microphone and burst into song. Yes, it was definitely time to leave.

I invited all my friends back to my place where we were free to drink and converse into the night. A pleasant tune from Pandora filling in the background , not overwhelming our good times. And so we drank. And we drank. And we drank some more. Being in my own house, I felt no need for restraint and drank myself into such a stupor that I don't recall how the night ended, but I'm told I provided much entertainment for my friends.

Now we're to the root of my predicament. 7 hours later, my eyes slowly peel open. The morning light cuts through me like a lightning bolt. I feel as though two squirrels are inside my head fighting over a bag of nuts. Except the squirrels are 20 feet tall and the bag of nuts isn't nuts, but bowling balls. The squirrels aren't fighting over the bowling balls. No, they're playing hacky sack with them. Oh it's such a wonderful morning. I look over at the night stand where an open bottle of Gatorade sits. Only a sip or two had been taken, and I knew at that moment that I was f*cked.

The poison is still in me, working through my veins. I can feel it in every inch of my body. I grab the Gatorade and I chug it, but it doesn't help. Over the next hour, I spend the bulk of the time wallowing in my own misery. I try to get more fluids into me. I try to get some food into me, but it only seems to make things worse. I stand up and I feel dizzy. I lay down and I feel queasy. In fact, there is this growing feeling in me that I'm going to throw up.

Now drinking oneself to the point of expelling one's own stomach contents is a very different experience depending on when said upchuck occurs. If you are drinking heavily and during the night's festivities you feel the need to hurl, it is something that was destined to be and flows fairly smoothly, usually to the amusement of your friends. It just happens. You feel it coming on, you're light headed and dizzy, and the alcohol flowing through your veins has you fairly numbed and desensitized to the unpleasantness which is about to befall you. If however you are sober and hung over the next morning, it is a cruel and ruthless experience. There is nothing to ease the pain, nothing to help you through it. The pain and suffering you thought was bad when you first woke up, and hoped would be better by now, has just begun to have its way with you. Actually there seems to be only one way to ease your suffering.

Much like a cleansing hangover dump, drawing waste from stores deep in my furthest extremities, vomiting seems to provide instant relief of ones condition. Unfortunately, I had not taken care of this the night before and was facing a dilemma. If you've already woken up, gotten some fluids back in you, gotten some food in you, it's an hour later and you still haven't thrown up yet, it doesn't come easy. I spent the next two hours wallowing in pain. Praying to God to just "Let Me Throw Up! Please, oh please God, just let me throw up!" You reach a point where dignity holds no value to you any more. You cling to that porcelain vessel, holding on for dear life, staring at your lifeless counterpart who gazes back up at you with dead hateful eyes. Mocking you. Taunting you, because you just can't get it up.

It's at this time that I had to make a decision. Do I deal with the fact that I'm not going to throw up, no matter how much my body is telling me it wants to, and spend the rest of the day in complete misery? Or do I force myself to throw up, an incredibly painful and unpleasant process, in hopes that following will come relief? My choice? Well, i think the whole praying to God thing kind of tells you what my choice was. So I take a big glass of warm water and chug it, stick two fingers down my throat, cough and gag for a minute or two, and then I grab hold for dear life... SUCCESS!!!

Never before have I been so happy to have my stomach contents come back up on me. It was a truly spiritual experience, as everything evil inside of me burst out in a glorious display. I felt the presence of Father Merrin over my shoulder with a cross and holy water. "I cast you out of this pour soul! Begone with you, Jim Beam and Jack Daniels! I banish thee, Captain Morgan and Sailor Jerry! The Power of Christ compels you! The Power of Christ compels you! " I am free, FREE of the retched demons in my belly.

I went upstairs and got a shower, and came back down refreshed and ready for a new day. I felt instant relief. My headache left me within the hour and I preceded to engorge myself on greasy food. So when you're faced with such a dilemma as mine, do the right thing a puke as soon as you can. You'll be much happier with yourself in the end. Thank you, oh porcelain goddess, you never steer me wrong.